My love for him was an oncoming car crash; unexpected and painful. The seat belt of my sanity wasn’t strapped on tight enough, so I flew out of the car when you said those words to me. Shards of unrequited love cut through my skin like a knife, but it’s nothing compared to the pain I feel as my face slides across the asphalt, constantly hitting bumps and cracks as the asphalt rips through my skull, prodding my mind with these thoughts. Thoughts of want, want for things I can never have. The cracks grow deeper the more he makes me laugh. The bumps hurt more as he compliments me. I turn to look at him and his road seems to be a lot smoother. Or maybe it is less painful to walk instead of having your face rubbed raw. Or maybe he had his seatbelt on tight enough. And now that look back he does. He stares at me with that innocent smile from the driver’s seat. Yet, through all the hurt and disappointment that smile still has the ability to make me melt. Someone once said, “To love a writer is to delight in the constant scrutiny of one’s soul. A writer dubs their muse with the naked truth of how they feel, what they observe, and what inspires them. To love a writer is a noble yet magical reflection of the mingling love and truth they experience.” I use this to promise you that I would pour my soul out onto paper and use my own blood as ink just to show you how much I care for you. I don’t care if you deny me a thousand times. Just don’t leave me alone on the cold asphalt without a helping hand; it hurts a lot more than you think.