The Tiger Stripe Girls

         Love is a lie. It’s whispers late at night; secrets hidden behind thin, white walls. It’s the creases of a smile, or the calluses on a palm, rough against your own. It’s the light that shines so brightly in someone’s eyes when they tell you they are yours. Love is summer days, and strawberries, and music, but most of all, it’s a lie.
         Because to me, love has never been like it should. To me, love is screaming at 2am, empty bottles, and smoke. To me, love is red, dripping down my arm and onto the floor, soaking into the wood that laps it up hungrily. To me, love is hurting. To me, love is pain.
         I love the girls with the tiger stripe skin. I love their scars. Pretty pink and pale, jutting out like they’re trying to be seen - to be heard. I love the stories they tell. I admire them; empathize with them. Those scars I’ve felt one too many times on the nights where it seemed as though pain had been the only way to feel something. I love the way color bleeds out on my skin, how it paints it blue and green and red. My actions - like those of the tiger stripe girls - are defined by love. Others will call it an excuse. Maybe it is. But to me - to us, it’s the only truth we’ll ever know. Because we were lied to.
         Love isn’t beautiful. It isn’t boy meets girl, boy dates girl, boy proposes to girl, boy and girl get married and have children and live perfect lives. In the real world, there are no happily ever after’s, and I hate that realizing that was as hard as it was. That understanding there was no prince charming coming to save me when angry voices bellowed down the hallway lead to denial and more denial until hours passed and the only things in the hallways were angry shadows. I only hurt myself more with it, but I think I enjoyed being ignorant. Deep down, I think we all do. Deep down, I think we’d all rather grab our emotions and shut them up, lock and key, just so we could slap a smile on our faces and pretend it’s real. Pretend that, somewhere in us, a cage isn’t rattling.
         People don’t understand. I was born into a world with parents who loved each other and I grew up in a world where I learned that wasn’t true. I spent years, watching as their laughter faded away. Watching as the only words they spoke grew to be those of barely concealed hatred, straining against their lips. They only did it for me and my sister. At least I know they love us in that twisted way adults do.
         And who knows, maybe love is real. But to me, it never will be. To me, I will only ever think of love as a filthy liar. I saw it trick my parents, I’ve seen it trick my friends, and it’s almost tricked me. I know how it lures people in with its crooked smile, how it promises secrets, smiles, calluses, light, summer, strawberries, and music. And I know how it will never give it to you.
         One day I’ll meet someone and we’ll get married. One day, I’ll be telling my children about how mommy and daddy met, and one day I will die knowing I’ve lived a life feeding into an illusion. To my future children, I hope I learn to love you like I love the tiger stripe girls, the color red, or pain. And I hope I can give you the chance to believe in love. Because love is a lie, but it’s one we all want to tell.