Love is a term, that harbors an array of connotation. To some, "love" is the black eye they received from "falling into the door knob" of a situation that intensified quicker than they could dodge. Before they could float, the stinger impaled their wings, leaving them flightless. That has always been the "love" I was accustomed to. I speak from experience as I have sat in the witness box but have also been too emotionally beaten to lift a finger of accusal towards the assailant who tore away my wings and in the next second, was telling me how to repair them. That love has made me a child afraid of the dark, never wanting to step out of my comfort zone but to experience something new I must try to forget the past hurt that has rendered my heart a corpse, has rendered my heart a waste land, a land for lost boys to inhabit without the guidance of Peter Pan. Their courteous question asking for permission to destroy what is left of my love surprises me because sometimes it seems manners have been lost in translation between a girl and her admirer. The different connotations of love have consumed my brain but my heart is still hanging on. My heart has made use of the stinger once meant to obliterate it to survive and laugh in the face of defeat.