The Things They Never Tell You

The Things They Never Tell You

You can read about it in books—

pages worn with other people’s pain,

tales of passion, of heartbreak,

of storms dressed up as rain.

Watch it flicker on a TV screen,

two actors pretending it’s real,

a soundtrack swelling beneath their lies,

disguising what they feel.

Or go online—

click through quotes like rosary beads,

hashtags wrapped around longing,

filters blurring the needs.

They’ll say it’s magic.

They’ll say it’s fire.

They’ll dress it up in velvet words—

desire, forever, admire.

But here’s the truth they bury deep,

beneath the poetry and prose:

Love is not a fairytale.

It cuts more than it shows.

It’s the silence between two breaths,

the bruise behind a kiss,

the way a heart can vanish

in the middle of all this.

It’s waiting for a message

that never comes through the phone,

learning how someone can hold you

and still leave you alone.

You can study it,

debate it,

build shrines to what you crave.

But love is best understood

by the wounds it gave.

So if you want to know it

truly know it to the bone,

don’t bother with books or screens.

Go get a lover of your own.

And when they break you open,

when your ribs become a gate,

you’ll finally understand

why they call it love, and hate.

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