I could tell you a story.
I don’t want a story. I want the truth.
The truth is too expensive. It tears out our hair.
Don’t we need to hear it anyway?
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
It’s okay. I brought a hat.
Love is an invented thing. Like holidays and time.
Why does my heart beat faster? Why does my stomach flip and flop?
Learned responses. Like wanting candy on Halloween. Wanting a drink at 5 o’clock.
If we did invent love, wouldn’t we have made it kinder?
You’d think so, but jumppuddle love, the kind that makes us want to smell nice, sells more perfume.
So the ache in my heart from made-up love is not at all real?
No. That is real. The tears, the longing. All of it real. It just isn’t the truth.
Why do we do it? Have real responses to something made up?
Because, the truth is, the truth doesn’t make a good story.
