What is love?
See, now that's a loaded question.
When I think about love, I think about the things I love.
I think about the warmth of my bed,
the food in my fridge,
the books I can read,
I think about... laying down in my backyard.
With the sun shining.
Warming my heart.
I think about opening my heart.
To the people who love me most.
But as a kid, I used to think
that love was a window.
I see you, you see me,
and it's kind like that awkward situation
with that special someone and you don't really know what to do.
I felt the butterflies in my stomach fluttering around,
kinda like walking on a cloud.
Not really sure where to put your feet.
See, the first time I fell in love
was a trial by fire.
I had to journey through the Black Lands of Mordor
only to get to Mount Doom.
The second time I fell in love,
was a trial by combat
and The Mountain wasn't here to fight for me.
I had to be my own champion against this Red Viper of love
but after each and every single trial,
the outcome was the same.
I was sentenced to heartbreak after heartbreak after heartbreak.
Sometimes, I wonder if Cupid’s arrow is really just an AK47 pointed at my heart.
See, as a man, I'm taught to use these hands
to carve and build things in your image,
to leave your legacy behind.
See, what I didn't realize was the irony
in the fact that every time I carve and build,
part of me was carved out, further emptying me.
See, I have grown to love to use these hands.
It's funny, cause every time I do, a part of me goes with it.
The first time I used these hands to hold something I love,
my hands cut through it like knives in this switchblade masquerade of a world.
I was told that I fit right in.
When you ask me "what is love",
could you be more specific?
When you ask me "what is love",
you try again, and try and try.
I was taught that love is not a battle but a war
and if you lose the battle you can still win the war.
When you ask me "what is love",
I tell you, "love is love".
Thing is, I don't want to have to tell you my stories.
I don't want to have to open myself up.
I was taught that if you're insecure about anything,
wear it like armor and people can't use it against you.
The problem with armor is that when it gets pierced,
there's a hole.
And there just so happened to be a hole where my heart should be.
"What is love"? Do you love yourself?
I don't even know what that means.
How do you love what everybody has spent your entire life trying to break?
How do you love something when every time you give it
to someone else to hold, they let it drop and hit the floor?
I was taught to use these hands to build,
but how can I do that if I can't even
fix my broken heart?
