There is a reason they associate love with the colour red. It is a bloody mess, unapologetically dangerous.
Your notion of love is distorted and decrepit, a delusion. Love does not manifest in long stemmed roses or honeyed prose. It isn’t a soft touch of lips or the fiery warmth of summer, no. It will not set ablaze a trail of incandescent passion that will leave you weak-kneed or dull headed.
That is merely lust.
Love, you silly little girl, is the brutal slap of cold winter months; the sweet stench of summer toil trickling down your skin; it is the subtle sacrifices and the long hikes that make ends meet; the disaster lurking around the corner that will knock away your penultimate breath. Love, is a nightmare encrusted within a dream; one you’re willing to fall asleep to every night.
That being said, shall I let you in on a little secret? Red is my favourite colour.