It's love….and it's not pretty.
It's love….and it's not pretty.
It's not heart, rainbows and saturday mornings spent in bed reading the newspaper and playing footsie under the covers.
No..
It used to be tinged with guilt, self recrimination…
It used to be almost hatred, because it wasn't supposed to happen, because one wasn't supposed to spy on his big brother when he fucked, wishing it was him his lips kissed, seeing red sometimes, because damn it, he belonged to him!
And truth is that, yes, they belong to each other…but it's hard, it's exhausting, it's love…
They don't do dates, unless one counts hustling pool as one. They don't do what many people in love do. They're not those people…their lives are different.
With them it's blood and skin too hot sometimes and bruises and words that cut like broken glass. With them it's endless hours spent driving a car that smell like home and home it's leather, car detergent and their smells mingles. With them it's hundreds of motel rooms, thin sheets, pillows thrown, stolen and shared, blood that drip on the floor, weapons concealed, lights out and skin on skin.
It's love and it's not pretty: it hurts, when they're apart, when they're together…sometimes they can't breathe, because it's just too much. The idea of losing each other - which is ironic given the life they live and choose to live every single day - knock them on their asses…because they've lived it, burnt their souls and the world and everything in between to be together and still…
…and still it's not pretty: it's blunt nails drawing blood on each other's backs, it's fucking someone on the side, just to breathe…just to think that they can do something…because otherwise it'd be paralyzing…they just couldn't function knowing the other is their entire world, the reason they still want to open their eyes, and walk, talk, breathe.
and it feels like cheating sometimes, but when they get back, it's, "Good night, Sammy…" or "Good night, Dean…" and lights out, and they both can breathe, they both can function.
It's love…and it's not pretty: he's your brother, he thinks, he's your best friend, your blood, conscience and soul…and you know what makes him laugh, cry and roll his eyes.
He's your brother,he thinks, he listens to your tapes, he knows that you say you don't do cuddling, but pretends not to notice when you rest your head on his chest and inhale, and count his heartbeats, and your limbs are pressed together and you can sleep.
They don't say I love you, don't hold hands, don't plan on the future - which future? -, they just…live; they fight and bleed and get screwed over, they lose friends, they mourn…and they're there, for each other, hanging for dear life, drowning sometimes, lungs filled with the other's air, staggering in a world that doesn't make sense, in skins too tight and heartbeats too fast and they both think it's terrifying, how much the other fills them…how much every part of each other, every blank space within them, is filled with the other. It's terrifying, exhilarating…and normal…it's how it's always been.
It's love…it's not pretty…it's who they are, it's how they love, it's how they breathe