Love Bomb

Love bombing.

Can I use it in a sentence?
“Man, she love bombed you well and good.”
Definition? Sure:
It’s where someone expresses love:
affection, lust; promises
that your future is one
and then they swipe
the joy from your face
in a speedy ol’ 180 turn.
Sometimes they don’t know:
can you believe that?
Sometimes they don’t know
that they’re toying with you
and putting dents in an already
fractured heart.

You see I’ve been hit by a love bomb
and unlike a real explosive,
I have to live to tell the tale.
I have to live with my shame
and my cycle of self-torment:
asking how I let it happen
a second time to myself.
No, this isn’t my first impact,
but the trauma from the last one
is still coursing through my body
and my love has awoken it.

She floated right into my life
when I wasn’t even looking,
tapping me on the shoulder,
and presenting to me my nerves,
saying, ‘I think you might have dropped these.’

BANG!

She was stunning, in every way:
her beauty was radiating
with her natural joy for life
that formed part of the first shockwave.

Over the weeks we connected
and my man-made shield of armour
began to unravel itself
and lay messily on the floor,
whilst I was shell shocked (and naked)

BANG!

You were in my head and my heart,
but you tiptoed around my space
and walked as though the floor was gold;
you treated me like a palace.

And once you were living in there,
you started to draw our blueprints
up for the future you and I:
blueprints of a home, and a dog,
and of food, and travel, and drink,
and cosy nights in with pizza:
we planned it all out together.

BANG!

And my oh my, I fell for you.
In such a short space of time, too,
I finally knew what love was:
real love, not like I’ve known before.
The kind of love that you just feel:
where I would have done anything:

I would have walked to the ends of the Earth
just so you wouldn’t have to catch the bus home alone.
I felt my insides run away every time you entered the room,
like when you’ve been caught
doing something you shouldn’t.
I would have taken all of your demons
and brought them to live with mine
just so that you could have a clear head.
I would have dived into the ocean
and faced my biggest fears just to save you,
even if there was no room on your door.

Fallout.

Like you said, I’m predictable.
My heart knows the dangers of love
and knows it can hurtle at high speeds
yet it refuses to wear a seatbelt.
My heart has been robbed of its joy so much
that when I do meet someone new,
it gets down on its knees in defeat
and exercises muscle memory.

And I know this is it for you and I:
once again I am the loser
but I can’t be bitter for it.
‘Can I say something crazy?’
The crazy thing is I can’t be angry
at someone who pulls the strings on my heart.
You are playing puppet master,
and my arms are weak from fighting
to take the control back off you.
‘Can I say something even crazier?’
I don’t want you to release me.

You see, a wise man once told me
that when you find the special one,
you fight for them with all your might.
Fight for hope, fight for love, fight for someone
who can make you feel the things that they do;
even if the road ahead is bumpy,
you damn well stick it in low gear
and you take it nice and steady,
because there are no shortcuts in life.

And yes, if this is being a martyr
then tie me to a crucifix
and use her promises of love
as the nails that bind me to it.
Perform an autopsy on me
and you will find my heart is locked in chains
with her name etched across the lock.
Extract my lungs for a transplant
and you will find that the first breath
its new owner takes is to say her name.

I’ve been love bombed, and the perpetrator
just happens to be the woman I love.

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