The Lonely Kind of Love

There's a lonely kind of love when you're lying alone at night and your hand reaches out but there's nothing there to meet it.

The kind which makes kind words feel like taunts and shadows look like the emptiness you feel inside. The kind of love where night is your enemy as you lie awake and pray for the feeling of arms around you just once more. Where you think of a time you first fell asleep in that safety and woke up so often in the night because you didn't want it to end.

But time passes and people change and hearts break and beliefs fade away until you can't recognise them any more. Love turns to hate and hate turns in on yourself until you'd do anything to escape your body, get out of your damaged skin. The kind of love where you look in the mirror and wonder if people are seeing something different because you're so flawed.

When you wish on stars and pennies and anything at all because you're desperate. How can it be possible to be somebody's world and then be nothing at all? So you obliterate it all with alcohol and trying to hurt yourself on the outside to match the hurt on the inside.

That damaged, self-destructive kind of love when there's nobody there to love you any more.