i had my first kiss on a random wednesday afternoon when i was 18. the rest of my firsts came in the week that followed. they were all rushed and in the backseat of my parent’s car, in empty parking lots and quiet streets. it was always the way he wanted it — quick and rough. sometimes he’d even talk to me afterwards, before rushing home and leaving me alone.
he told me only a few weeks later that he didn’t love me anymore. that he could never picture himself waking up next to me in the morning. i cried and tore myself apart. it felt like i was rotting from the inside out. if this boy couldn’t even love me in his imagination, who could ever love me in real life?
he told me he didn’t love me anymore, but that didn’t mean he stopped wanting to fuck me. it was rough and clumsy and i hated every second of it, but i told myself that maybe if he fucked me enough, he’d fall back in love. he didn’t. i’d never been treated so delicately and with so much care before, so i let him break me.
i did not have a date to my high school graduation dance. i went with a friend. i sat and watched the couples dance to the slow songs, imagining that we were them. but we weren’t. that night, i drank so much that i couldn’t see, and threw up the three bites of dinner i ate.
my second love was an older boy. he broke another girl to be with me. and then he broke me. he took every “no” as a “yes, please, faster”.
he never took his hands off of me, like a leash attached to a dog. like touching me was his way of claiming ownership. he shouted and manipulated, but at least he looked at me. i mistook anxiety for butterflies, so every time he was near and my hands trembled, i thought it was love.
he left in a storm, blaming me for all his mistakes. we never spoke again, but he got back with his ex. i hope she’s okay. since him, being touched has never felt the same.
after the second boy, i couldn’t stand having someone lay their hands on me. it always ended with me in tears, feeling like a scared little girl. my third love couldn’t touch me, so it was quick. we slow danced in his kitchen in the middle of the night. i fell, he left, he called me a slut in his group chats.
my fourth love wasn’t really love. she wanted too much, and she never listened to me. if she had listened, she might’ve known to be gentler, slower. she might’ve been more patient. she might not have demanded every piece of me. but she didn’t. so i left. i hid.
the love i experienced was never innocent. my love was never white, never pure, never symbolised by doves or butterflies. it was always in the dark, symbolised by vultures. it was always rushed, demanding, silent.
i don’t mean to be cynical. i want to believe you when you tell me you love me. i want to believe the words you say. but i’ve been starved for love my whole life, and your sweet words give me a stomachache.
