Told with the fondness of nostalgia,
I grew up with the same few stories,
Like prized childhood memories
Of times considered better.
Where violence was common,
And insults became funny after time.
Because when you’re that young,
Everything seems worse than it was.
We joke about never being loved,
And how the bare minimum
Had to be more than enough.
Real love hurts. Real love is tough.
They made light, so we do the same.
Funny that the stories remain unchanged,
Only swapping their names with our names
And chuckling because it’s old pain.
That must’ve made us stronger,
Though we won’t think on that any longer
Than we must.
Laugh to stop from crying,
Because even if the past cannot be undone?
It can be spun
In such a certain, special way
To make it darkly humorous.
Because real love hurts,
But real love is tough.
Or so we were told.