love is a strange concept

when i was a small child, back when i actually wanted to know what made me so untolerable in my mother's eyes, the idea of upsetting her was unbearable for such a dependent body and mind. whenever she got mad at me, no matter the reason, i'd try to fix things between us even if i wasn't in the wrong. because mom couldn't do any wrong in my eyes. if there was someone to blame, if there had to be someone to be blamed, then i'd gladly be the one if it meant we would be okay. i'd write her poems, songs, do silly dances for her, if it meant she'd smile at me the same way she did for people she barely knew. i didn't know her love wasn't something i was meant to fight for. and when she would threaten me to take her own life because of something i did, i'd cry to god for hours, begging for him to not let that happen. because even if she wasn't the best, i still needed her by my side. how was i supposed to know if i deserve anyone's love when the one who gave birth to me was acting as such? i still remember the days i would sit by the doorway whenever she locked herself up, sliding notes under the door, saying i'm sorry and i'd do whatever she wanted me to if she came out. and what scared me was actually the possibility of her never responding. i'd sit there until she came out, ready to take any punishment from her as long as it wasn't silence. i'd beg her to speak to me, to get angry or throw curses at me, to hit me or send me away. as long as it wasn't silence. as long as i was sure of what she was thinking about me. negative or positive, i wanted to be sure of her feelings. well, as i grew up, the want to understand her somewhat disappeared. i decided that for someone who claims to give up on their life to look after me, torturing me with their absence was indeed not something they would want to do. it actually turns out that even though they aren't directed at the same person anymore, those fears and worries always held a significant amount of place in my heart and mind. i loved someone more than the life itself, and i think i still do. the thought of being without them was unbearable after some point, but that was exactly what i got. i told them, as long as i knew that they were coming back, they were free to go. as long as i knew. it was humiliating, to find myself thinking, writing, talking and crying about them even after the lack of what i got from them. days, weeks, months of silence. i wanted to ask them why. to ask if i really was worth so little in their eyes that even a message was too much work, too much of a bother. all i wanted was an answer, a few words from the mouth of someone i shouldn't have to fight to be loved by. someone whose love i'd fight for, still. someone i still am willing to tear my heart out and lay it in their hands for, but still worry myself into oblivion so that the hands i love more than the God himself remain undisturbed by my blood. and sometimes, even when they're the craftsman of my heart's decaying home, i find myself wishing to sit by their doorway and slide letters under their door. and my love, i still want to run my hands through your dirty blonde strands, look into those olive green eyes until my soul grows tired of my flesh. until my veins pulse with your syllables. until you open that door.