blow

Love is the worst feeling in the world.

It's like that first line, the bump in the bathroom stall at midnight to keep you going until last call. A sweet rush of adrenaline and pleasure, opening your eyes and dilating your pupils so you see colors and space and time in ways that you never thought possible. Speeding up your pulse. Every touch explodes in sensation. Every kiss an orgasm. Every look over the shoulder, every smile, every brush of hair tingling the nerves and rushing blood to the skin.

Then you crash.

Everything falls apart, you lose the sensation, you close your eyes again. Colors fade and dim. You numb. All you want is that rush again, that feeling in your veins and nerve endings. You can't sleep without the warm skin next to yours. You can't focus on work, on school, on getting out of bed in the morning without that quickened pulse. The glass isn't just half-empty, it's shattered on the floor, drops of water spreading across the tile.

Love songs brush past this fact. Love songs present it as butterflies and doves and singing from the trees and rose bushes and seagulls cawing over a romantic picnic on the beach. Love songs written by some anonymous person somewhere and sold to a record company and sang by a pretty face with a good image and a stylist and a publicist and a designer and a fragrance line sold in major department stores in every mall.

All I want is another white line right now.