Love is a gamble. Always.

I feel like a tirelessly exhausted gambling addict.

Every time I lose, the stakes get raised and I always go all in. I don’t ease into it, I don’t wait or ponder whether I have the right cards. I don’t seem to worry about the outcome, I apparently have nothing to lose. Every time again, I believe this time my luck will have turned to face me in my favor. Every time I have my hopes set on the power of faith to work its magic for me just once more. Every time I get burned, broken and beat down. I cry, self destruct, mourn my failure, grief my own downfall. Then I gather my loose pieces and my losses together and reach deep into the infinite bottomless pocket of love cash that is my heart. Only to play again, only one more time. Always.

Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I know that the house always wins and we’re all being scammed for the mere disillusionment that we could have it all and gain even more if we just play it right, if we just get in touch with that one stroke of luck. Maybe one day I’ll learn to walk away as soon as my winning streak is over. But instead I still sit here, betting more of myself than I actually have to give, just riding along on the hope, the wish, the dream, the faith that soon my luck will return. Or love.

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