Love is a Whore

Love is a whore. She wasn’t always, but that’s what has come of her. She’s the cliché walking home at eleven o’clock the next morning wearing the same leather boots and miniskirt from the night before. She means nothing, and she’s going nowhere. She’s the empty metaphor, coked out on the streets at five in the morning. She wanders through the city searching for a home, but forever finds herself empty-pocketed and hollow.

What ever happened to Love? She used to be such a vision. Her eyes, once reflections of oceans, are now dried-up puddles of piss caked on to urinal pucks. She is the wasteland. There is no landscape to her face, only an empty cul-de-sac. She’s hollow-eyed and high, or  passed out in the corner of a pub, her face pressed up against the cement wall. Her favorite song is playing; it falls deaf on her drunken ears. She’s tripping out.

No one takes her seriously anymore. She’s gone from poetry to People Magazine. From portrait to profile picture. From Mac to Maybelline  (Maybe she’s born with it, or maybe it’s Friday night and she just wants every guy in the room to want to take her home.) She used to be such a beauty, now she’s down on her knees in the back alley giving blow jobs for quarters.

I read about Love in her glory days. I’ve heard her in the lyrics of the Beatles and seen her in pictures of hippies stuffing daises in military rifles. But she’s no longer the same, and that version of Love is a ghost. She’s the mysterious phantom that beckons me around every corner only for me to turn the bend and find nothing but a heap of ashes. Did she ever exist, or did I only imagine her? Oh, glorious specter, you’ve fooled me again, but one day, I’ll find you.

Is Love like Jesus or Santa Claus? Do we have nothing but her story? Did Love die with God, or was she given life by man? Was Love the project of capitalism? Was romance created as a literary and cinematic genre in order to sell books and movies? To plant seeds of insatiable longing that would flower into a desperate need to consume Big Macs and Volkswagens and bottom-lash mascara?

Or was there really a “Once Upon a Time”? Once upon a time, people fell in love. I’m not talking about fairy tales with princesses or knights in shining armor, but real-life romances, where women get to feel like queens, and where men had something worth fighting for.

Love is that over-used cliché, the one whose been folded over so many times you can see the creases in her face. She has smoke for hair and ash for eyes. She’s the dead metaphor. As if by magic, Love has transformed from the beautiful woman you took home the night before to the whore that rolls over in the morning with bad breath and mascara smeared across her face.

R.I.P. Love, we hardly knew ye.

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