My inner child, like any other forsaken ugly duckling, has an eternal grudge against Valentine’s Day. The hopeless resolve; a classroom collective of cards and candy. Five-for-a-dollar heart-shaped boxes of chocolate from my half-hearted mom. 

Yes, I hold resentment for Valentine’s Day. What a cheap fabricated ruse! A distraction from Black History Month. It’s artificially sweetened-down propaganda;  christianized and censored modifications from the celebration’s lusty origins make it a holiday of rejection and shame.

Yet, I’m still a hopeless romantic with a talent for seeking out beauty within hollow, ruinous hearts without consideration for mine.

Chelsea Wolfe sings… _{^{I am depleted by love}}

It’s just… I am so heartbroken and exhausted from affection emissions that I band-aid the pain by remembering the feeling not so much the people to keep on seeking love and always giving it a chance. So, when February rolls around I am of the ‘if it’s something other than Lupercalia, or a representation thereof- it can get fucked’ state of mind. That is until I fantasize about various lovers pining for my attention, in different realms, in certain points of view…

And, then I reframe V-Day and think about the common poem shared amongst Halloween lovers. Only with my added flavor;

Roses Are Red, 

Ghosts are Dead, 

Valentine’s Day would be better if it was bound in Shibari rope and splashed with blood instead.

Or something like that. 

In all seriousness, I know now, I accept that I am deserving of the Morticia Addams-like treatment I receive. It is just that I also have endured the emotion of love and in my experience, it is too overrated to be celebrated with its own holiday. It’s too versatile and too complex to always have the invisible starring role in every movie genre. Well, aside from horror because love is also so evil, so conniving, so psychotic, so mind-bending, so heart-squelching.

Love is deceptive. 

Is it worth it?

I have learned some of the hardest truths about myself because of love. Like, Just because someone wants the best for me, does not mean they are going to do their best for me. No one is capable of loving me the same way I love them. These hard truths aren’t disheartening though. I’ve found that this truth can lead to further discoveries within someone that fuel more love for them and even more astonishing, love for myself.

Unlike my inner child, love from others isn’t something I can solely live for. Not anymore. I want to be the queen of action and have love affairs with nature, the fantastical characters inspired by my muses, and the kinks and orgies that happen in my mind-kingdom.

If I am to endure love in such a moment to be alive,  I’d rather it be tragic and flavorful. Without realizing it, I ensure, all the time, that it is. Though I burn my hands and dramatically stake my own heart, to be relentlessly heartbroken is a curse of being black, goth, and creative. But, wouldn’t it be nice if the toxic Valentine’s Day hype included the dark aspects of love within it, making V-Day a more dark and scary and lusty liberation rather than an empty and monetary obligation?