Lovers lane ( short story excerpt)

We die day by day, selves slewn, no detective. I have been slaughtered by
Love ridiculed by its side effect, it is a poisonous lover and yet I remain enchanted. Enthralled. Who could love this, I used to say, this flawed, distorted self, who would claim this as their belonging, be on an Island with this self. I say, it is a dangerous thing to love, to need, to awaken something like fire deep in the recesses of your mind. To be swallowed whole by it, drowning in the saliva of its words, yet thirsty still. There are people out there, mother warns in love with being in love. People out there who are tempest, and literature, who are fragmented now because they realised something was missing. They were missing a love. How do I love thee, let me count the ways, damaged through history, for the rest of our days, I find myself lonesome, and longing without you, I find myself turning many shades of blue. It was a poem I rehearsed in drama class, one that Eleanore Toms wrote in Lit. I think to myself, how scary it is to love like this. My prescription? Avoid the lovers lane