You know, I don’t think you ever really forget your first love. They’re the one that made your second love possible. Sometimes you want to throw your hands up in the air and say Fuck it to them, but they paved the way for all the other bodies after them. There’s so much beauty in every thunderstorm, so many strangers’ hands touching every day, once, and then maybe they touch again years later, yet no one ever realizes it. Your first love is like no other; you’d stay out past your curfew for them, key cars for them, steal liquor from the drugstore for them, do silly, unimaginable, ridiculous things for them that you’d never do normally.

So many of us think we depend on loneliness when really loneliness is something that depends on us. It’s something that you have to starve slowly so you can kill it and throw it away. God, what a terrible thing it is to love, isn’t it? To sit in the back of an abnormal psychology class or a human relations class and feel the tension between you and the person sitting in front of you so palpably, so real you could almost reach out and touch it, like an electric current stretching between the two of you. And the back of their neck, that curve that ends in the darkness of their shirt, the dark hair trailing down the white skin. They’re just so unapologetically human.

And to love that first love so much, to crave them like a drug, to love them so hard you could crush their heart between your fingers like an egg shell; they’re like one of those baby birds that falls out of its mother’s nest and cracks its head on the pavement-you love them that bad. That hard.

And when that first love loves you back, you could kill yourself from the wanting. The wanting is worse when you’re actually with them. You want their legs, to touch their body, their hair, their skin. You fall in love with the way they eat their soup with a fork or their sleepy yawns. Lightning storms are nothing compared to the current of human desire; it carries a maximum voltage like nothing scientists have ever seen. Let me tell you something. There’s a reason Snow White ate that poisoned apple.

There’s a reason your first love never goes away-

they were just practice for your last love.

Some people say that you are only
as strong as you believe yourself to be,
and I once believed that my arms
could hold onto your love.
But my bones ended up
shattering when I tried
lifting your affections,
and that’s when I knew
that strength wasn’t something
that you could just wish for.

I wish I had someone that I could confess everything to, and I mean literally everything. Thoughts that I am even afraid to admit to myself. I’ve never had any person that I could turn to, tell what’s on my mind, and I mean exactly what’s on my mind, without the thoughts of that person judging me. I just want to be able to spill my everything to someone, and have that person still love me as much as they did without knowing anything at all about me.