Swift sings of finding love and having it either surgically amputated for its own good or brutally torn off.
As she succinctly puts it on the opening track: I love you, its ruining my life.
Painful breakup stories are like assholes; everybody has one.
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They dont love you anymore and the relationship itself pushes you out, like an organ transplant gone wrong.
None of usincluding Spotifys most-streamed artist of all timeis above tonguing the aching cavities your sweetheart leaves behind.
Breakup cycles vary, but any of the following stages may occur.
(I once cried at a paisley print.)
Thelaughing but it turns into sobbingstage.
Theleaving voicenovellas at 3 a.m.stage.
Thedeleting their number for a few days but remembering its on an archived email about a UPS deliverystage.
Thewho the fuck are they fucking, tho?stage.
Practice safe sex and bonk yourself blind.
Alwyn feels safe, where Healy feels dangerous.
(Though neither of these things is net bad or good, security is a helleva drug.)
In Swifts world of soaring choruses and almost-petty retorts, functional relationships rarely yield bangers.
