Fuck You! That says a lot, but does it really?
The extent to which I feel it is not adequately described with a common phrase. Dear Love, you do not remind me of red hearts right now.
You do not remind me of champagne and bubble baths for two, with chocolate kisses mixed in. You do not entice me to smile or make Valentines. You make me want to cry.
I haven’t cried though because it’s more fun to curse you and all of your celebrations — especially your presumption that all beings who wish to buy food on a given day also wish to be reminded of you. What do you expect me to do? I am the one who was left, the one whose heart was trampled on.
Should I buy paper and paste and send myself half a Valentine with a rigid break in the middle, with blood still crusty on the edges of its break? How do I depict the scars that have built upon each other, one atop the other in layers, in breaks?
Each break is different, so it’s not like they are all piled up nicely for display.
I don’t want to give you the power to allow me to cry now. You are only a fucking holiday. You are only trying to make money off of the unsuspecting, love-struck souls who have bubble hearts floating above their clouded hearts. You make plenty. You have them.
You think you have love too. But, think again. I didn’t say Fuck Love, I said Fuck You. You are a reminder to all of the brokenhearted that they should just go home and cry. You remind me not to paint my toenails red.
The worst part is that you make me want to hate love. Nice try. I don’t. I only hate you. But instead of celebrating love today, I want to wear black, and hide in a cave. All in your honor.
From there, I think I will make you a Valentine, as I sit here telling the fire these words. The fire is watching me type. I am being told that I should burn you up. To purify you? To purify myself? Truly, I hope you feel the pain and have no one to rescue you with water, no one to pat you until you are free.
I hope you die before you wake up.
Originally published on Rebelle Society 2.11.14