Quicksand

"That's what happens," my father said to me, his eyes creasing at the corners. "That's what happens when you fall in love with someone who is exactly like you." I had known he was right and that I should have known better than to get involved with someone so much like me, but it still hurt. I sighed, ignored my father, and poured myself a shot of vodka. This was what I needed right now. "Someday you'll find your way back together. You saw this coming." Someday doesn't help today while I'm sulking into my drink.
My mother repeatedly told me not to give so much this time so I wouldn't get hurt. She told me he wasn't giving enough back and I was going to run myself ragged trying to keep up. I shouldn't let myself get lost in love.
But love is supposed to be that carnival ride that you don’t want to get off of, that drug that you can’t get enough of; Love is supposed to mean diving off of a cliff head first into another person and getting drunk off their desires, high off their happiness, and coming down only when their physical touch pulls you from your trance. Love is supposed to be like that moment when you break through the surface of the water and take that gasp of air.
All of my relationships have ended because I've loved too fast, loved too hard, and had nothing left to give. I've run myself into the ground for someone else's happiness and had no one to pull me out of the quicksand.