The excitement and the rush of the initial danger, the sharpness of both sides.
We juggle these many blades back and forth for as long as we can, trying not to draw any blood in the process, but knowing that we eventually will.
To love is to trust another with the sharpest of blades aimed at your heart, and to trust yourself with a knife aimed at theirs.
We apply pressure, enough to excite and make the heart beat faster, but hopefully not so much that we penetrate through the trust we try build together.
To love is to draw blood together, and to heal with forgiveness.
To love is to accept that the one who holds your heart will fail to protect it from time to time, because we are flawed with only hopeful intentions.
To love is to love yourself more than you are, to leave forgiveness in a place for someone else, but not the one that carelessly ran you through to the core.
To love is to drop your blade and walk away from the ones that failed you, and to let them try and to run you through once more.
To love is to choose to dull their memory and their blades upon choosing a different path, one without the ones that let you down by drawing too much blood.
To love is to play with knives, and waiting to see who will draw blood first?
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