When it is but it is not love, it masquerades as passion, a fervent flame that consumes rather than warms. Some of us love badly, or perhaps we mistake the intensity for love. This love implodes, folding in on itself, devouring its essence. It turns the sweetest wine into the bitterest poison, misbehaving in the sanctity of shared spaces. It drinks deeply from the well of insecurity, kisses strangers with lips that should be faithful, and returns to your bed at ungodly hours, reeking of the world outside.

This love asks about your past, not out of curiosity, but jealousy. It sees rivals in every glance, every smile. Some of us love others badly, but love ourselves even worse. This love is horrid, beastly, a sick love that shuns the light. It cannot find solace in the night, cannot sleep with its own conscience. It catches fire, burning from within, destroying the very core of its being. It strips away the beauty of life, leaving ruins in its wake.

This love punches, smashes heirlooms, tells the most convincing lies. It fucks around, writes poems that impress, but are hollow at their core. It chases lovers into corners, leaving them longing, a sick sea of desire. It says yes, but means anything but. It tricks the body, kills the spirit, dances wildly and then walks away, smiling. This is not love, but a carnal disease, a shadow of what love should be.

In the end, it is a lesson, a reminder that true love does not destroy, but builds. It does not consume, but nourishes. It does not imprison, but sets free. Remember that sometimes, what we think is love is anything but. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer