You treat love like a virus, airborne, carried on words whose sincerity you're unsure of. The "I love you"s and "your beautiful"s bare jagged teeth. Their untrustworthy brightness shoots pain through your eyes. Because hugs can be sharp and kisses can burn and evenings, drunk with laughter become frozen, hungover mornings, and unlucky for you your brain hangs on to every. piece. of. memory. from the night before. Except now it's grayer and you shudder at the sharp angles and dark shadows of the exoskeleton the moment has left behind. It is fear. It is fear and it is pain and it keeps you tucked under your quilted armor on Saturday nights while the rest of the city builds altars to Jack and Jose and Mary and Molly and you? You just can't be bothered to pretend like there's anything good out there for you anymore.