October 2, 2014
When I was 15 I used to lay in the dark and pretend I was in love. An imaginary boy holding me tight, telling me things so sweet they seemed to come from a script.
When I was 16 I met a boy who didn’t hold me tight or speak romantic lines that gave me butterflies, but he told me he loved me and I thought that was all that mattered.
When I was 17 that boy didn’t love me anymore. I spent that year trying to find another boy to tell me he loved me so I could feel whole again. All I found were boys who wanted to make me whole in different ways and then they’d be gone as quick as they came.
When I was 18, I met a boy who told me he loved me. I still remember the first time he said it too, like a movie playing in my memory. tears streaming down his face “I love you so much.” I thought that was enough. Silly girl.
Now I’m 21 and I’m laying in the dark wondering how I was ever so stupid to wish to be in love.
Love is a terrible, horrible thing that twists your insides and rips every piece of you until you are left with nothing but your pieces lying on the floor.
But despite it all, I still want to be in love. I can still look to my side in bed and know that one day, some boy I haven’t met yet will be lying there, holding me tight, talking in poetry about how I am his sun. He will take the ripped parts of me and piece them together as best as he can and every time he says “I love you” they will mend together until I am whole again.
I am so anxious for this kind of love that puts me back together instead of tearing me apart.