314.

There’s a saying for it in French: amour fou. It’s a passion that is irrevocably intoxicating; a fire that refuses to die. The kind of passion that ripples through your entire body. It blurs the lines—only lets you see what is directly in front of you, only lets you see what you want. Perhaps that’s why I prefer it. It kept my denial alive, at least.

There were these walls that I had built and I was so proud of them. My hardened exterior, my armor, was impenetrable. I thought it gave me all the strength in the world because I wouldn’t be the person to be destroyed by heartbreak. However, there was a flaw in the design. The walls weren’t reinforced. A single spark of amour fou and brick by brick, I dismantled myself.

The truth was they never existed to keep people out. They existed to keep my heart in…and a single mistake left it splintered with vulnerability.

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