Blackout

    Some people find real love, a true acceptance of their merits and flaws, but most find a love that conveniently works, fitting awkwardly into place like some sort of defective puzzle piece.
   ...me, well, anything I thought to be love was a lie, a facade, addicted to one girl after the other, like a cigarette; chain searching for a healthy heart. I was usually flicked to the street though, maybe I had too large a list of toxins and they didn't have the tolerance to withstand me.
    I seem to wear a darkness now, like a cold shadow, draped in midnight blues. ..."Love". Some call out its name, I just try to forget; it hangs above my head every December, like an icicle waiting to break.