Love Hurts or "The Night I Decided Never to Fall in Love Again"

We'd been together nearly two years. I'd even moved house to be nearer to him. But that night, somehow, I knew it was all over.

I remember he was wearing his leather jacket. His black hair was long. His dark eyes flashing. Angry. He was always angry.

The room I had rented was tiny, and was now one half filled with the giant television he'd insisted we install. Later, months later, I would call a friend to help me down the stairs with it. Get rid of it. So I had some space.

But that night, I would have given anything to keep the TV. To keep him. When he slammed the door, and I heard his footsteps thundering down the stairs, I fell to my knees.

My face against the cheap linoleum floor, I had the thought: without him, there is nothing. I have nothing.

I believed, I had always believed, that being in love meant surrender. In my heart, I have always felt this... 'capacity'... I suppose you might call it, for love. For giving love. Love, it's something I'm good at.

But Love like that, it makes you vulnerable. It covers your eyes to the truth: it hides the insults, the name calling, the aggression. It hides disrespect. It covers it up and calls it need. I need you. I love you. Please hurt me.

Lying there, broken, on the floor, another thought followed:

I will never give away my heart again.

And since that night, I never have.