Her silhouette was enough to consume your sentience, all at once. She confused the butterflies in your tummy to be born out of a stemming infatuation; one that choked your breath. It wasn’t love. It never was. It was the looming destruction that she would bring into your life. Hopeful, you pacified that destruction to be one that would expel all the pain that your heart could possibly fathom. You believed you would emerge a stronger, more nuanced lover. But those butterflies never left, did they? You couldn’t doubt her love, could you? Her name, her smell, or even a sparking thought, brought you down to your knees and you were in love, once again.


She was born out of the minds of romantics. She was the embodiment of beauty and intellect. But that embodiment was the very thing that commanded her destruction. It was elegance she yearned for, but where could this grace come from? When would she find the chance to numb the heart with her charm? She thought she found her elegance in destruction. In the power and ecstasy she felt in destroying her lovers, she didn’t realize she was eroding pieces of herself. Her love was honest. She meant to do no harm to the people she loved. But the only end to love was her destruction; the numbing of her own heart.

Guest Author: Yashasvi Kathotia