as he cut me open

and let the words out

for the very first time.

people discredit my writing because i am so young. they always have. i started sharing my heart when i was 13, after you left. writing was all i had to cope, to heal. i am 20 now but people still don’t think my words ring true. age to them is an indicator of learning, of wisdom, of weathering.

but listen to me: there are children who are only 10 who have experienced more pain than adults who have lived half a century. there are teenagers who have had more obstacles laid across their paths than my grandparents.

i was not one of those children, nor was i one of those teenagers. my problems are small in the face of theirs. and i am thankful for that.

but that does not mean my pain and my struggles aren’t valid.

that does not mean they don’t deserve a place on the shelf.

—a small disclaimer

first love is unlike anything else.

i still remember how the nerves felt,

how the butterflies flapped around

in my stomach.

the ones you love after

your first will never

feel as exotic or new.

first love is an exploration.

i saw the entire world

in your eyes.

i can’t tell you

how many times

somebody has looked

at my open wounds

and told me

that i’m not really

bleeding

—age doesn’t mean shit

i wrote my first poem about you, but it wasn’t sad. no, this was before. before we came to a screeching halt, before you wrapped your hand around my jugular, yanked, and watched the blood drip down your wrist.

i wish i could find it, but i lost those pages long ago. i remember that i said it didn’t matter how long we lasted, that i was just glad to be able to call you mine for at least a while.

how silly of me to think it wouldn’t hurt when you left. how foolish of me to not foresee a devastating end.

scene:

we are walking down your street. i catch you staring.

“what are you staring at?” i ask.

“just you,” you respond.

“wha—why?”

“because,” is all you say.

“why?” i ask again. nervous, for some reason.

“because!”

“why, though?”

“because, you’re fucking beautiful!”

end scene

i remember this distinctly. more than our first kiss or the first time you said you loved me.

i remember it because years later, it is horrifying to me.

because later that night, when i went to talk to self-love, i saw you looking back at me when i should have seen myself.

relationship status: it’s complicated.

i’m not seeing what i should be seeing when i think of you.

there’s somebody else here.

and there shouldn’t be, but it feels so good.

is this wrong? is this wrong to be thinking about somebody else when i should be thinking of you (myself)?

i only feel beautiful when they tell me so.