Feb 6, 2010
I still think about you. When certain songs come on the radio, or I see a skateboarder in the street, or even when I see guys who shares your slight, but overwhelmingly cute overbite, I think of you.
I’ll always think about you.
Being my first boyfriend, my first love, my first lover – well, I should remember you, right? Oh, but it hurts.
Do you remember staying at my house those weekends, hiding from my grandfather? Do you remember the day we lost our virginity, and how afraid you were that you might hurt me? We used to take showers together, and you hated washing your hair but you’d let me wash it for you. Do you remember? I do. (more…)
Jul 6, 2009
To the man who let her go:
You don’t know me. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know you either, but I know of you. I also know your type. I also know and love someone you once claimed to love too. I suppose we have that in common, but that’s where the sameness ends. The biggest difference between us: I am smart enough to see that which was right in front of you and you neglected and abused.
How you could you look into her eyes and not see the love shining back at you? How could you look at that beautiful, soft face and not feel the desire to want to hold her, love her, touch her?
I don’t understand why you kept her at arm’s length. I don’t understand how you missed all the beauty both inside and outside of and around her.
She healed you inside. I know you felt it. I know you felt her healing touch, her love. I know you craved that from her. I crave it too, but I appreciate it, nurture it, treat it like the precious thing it is. (more…)
Mar 4, 2009
When I was a child of fifteen years old, you were a worldly man of twenty. To me, you were intrigue and danger–all the things my parents would hate. At the time, I was motivated only by my need to be loved, living in a family where love played second to the almighty dollar, and perhaps getting back at my parents. I guess that’s a typical teen rebellion, but I took it a step further than most.
I thought you loved me. When you touched my fifteen-year-old virgin body, I felt alive in a way I had never experienced in my sheltered existence, and like a drug, I was hooked, addicted, unable to refuse.
So when things became unbearable at home, you offered me a place to run, and I took you up on that offer. Little did I know once I was ‘yours’ that you would treat me like you owned me. There was no love in your touch any longer. Looking back, I wonder if there ever was. I think maybe I only felt what I wanted to feel, thinking the grass would be greener anywhere other than my loveless parents’ home. (more…)