Picture This (A Love Like Dying)

“Perhaps lovers aren't supposed to look down at the ground. That kind of story is told in symbols--and earth represents reality, and reality represents frustrations, chance illnesses, death, murder, and all kinds of other tragedies. Lovers are meant to look up at the sky, for up there no beautiful illusions can be trampled upon.

To love anything once extremely well made you vulnerable to another loving attack.”

― V.C. Andrews

A prayer for the cruel. I would have rather died than earn your disapproval. Yet you hated me so much. You even took away my copium, that I used to survive with. Something harmless that wasn't affecting you. But you still kicked it away from my hands. You said you wanted me happy yet you kick my crutches until I have nothing to cope with. Is it not cruel to not keep the promises you made as a consolation and also take away the crutches that I needed? Maybe it wasn't that you were cruel, but it was me who loved you too much so you could only be cruel.

Picture this—

you tear her from your sight,

scrub her name from the air like a stain,

promise me you’ll be here,

swear it in the dark, in the hush between sins.

But then you steal it back.

You—the one who was supposed to be rebellion incarnate,

the storm no one could tame.

And me, the uptight, rule-chained girl,

the one who should’ve known better.

Funny, isn’t it?

I would’ve carried your sins like relics,

held your name in my mouth like a hymn,

while you pushed me off cliffs

to please the shadows in your life.

But it wouldn't earn me your love or affection,

that I so desperately crave.

You wanted my life.

And I… I would’ve given it,

wrapped in silk, with a trembling laugh,

because isn’t that what love is?

A slow, exquisite suicide

performed in your honor.

And when my corpse swings

from the ceiling of your room,

I wonder—will you look up?

Will you see the last prayer

that used to wear my face?

But you drown out my screams, don’t you?

With laughter too loud, music too sharp,

a thousand meaningless distractions,

because facing my agony

might crack that beautiful cruelty you wear so well.

You turn your head,

pretend my suffering is theater,

a tragic little play you’ve grown bored of halfway through.

Even as my life leaks from my fingertips,

even as my voice frays into silence,

you sigh—

like I’m a burden you regret picking up.

Hope, that sickly, stubborn thing,

gathers in a trembling puddle

as I shake you by the shoulders,

muttering don’t go, don’t go, I don’t want you gone

as though words could stitch open wounds.

And with your final, careless kick

at the body that loved you too much,

I stop seeing my rescuer.

You become something else—

not a savior, not a lover,

but a god of indifference,

a deity of silent rooms,

the murderer of hope,

and hands that never reach back.

Is this the curse?

To love the one whose hands

tighten around your throat

and call it tenderness?

To crave the bruises like flowers,

because his violence is the only thing

that still makes you feel chosen?

But he'll never choose you, over anything.

If given a choice—

between a man who’d guard your heart

like a relic of saints

and you—

the storm, the fire, the cruel beautiful thing—

I would still choose you.

Even now, with the taste of blood

and betrayal on my tongue,

I’m still waiting

for the door to burst open,

for you to say I was wrong,

I can’t breathe without you.

But I know you never regret hurting anyone.

They always deserve it.

You don't believe in forgiveness.

So the room stays quiet.

Even when my foolish heart keeps hoping,

anytime you will come and take me in your arms.

Because that cruel heart of yours loved me immensely once.

And maybe that’s what love is, too—

a thousand soft deaths,

a million silent betrayals,

and the quiet, desperate hope

that this time

he’ll come for you.

Even though now you know

he never will.

And isn’t that the cruelest thing?

That you love him wholeheartedly anyway.

Picture this:

the boy who swore he'd love you till his last breath and beyond,

watching you die,

and not flinching.

© 2025 Inaba Tarek