To all the boys I have “loved” before.
We dated when we were only fourteen. I understand all teenagers were stupid, so I have learned to forgive you. You were my first real relationship, and thus, we had a lot of other “first”s together. First date, first kiss, first school dance. First person to break up with me because I said that PDA was weird and didn't want to make out in the movie theater.
You, physically, were a harmless, scrawny middle schooler who’s mother taught him to never hit a woman. However, you were an emotional wreckingball to my fragile, young heart. You taught me that if I did not kiss you when you told me to, I was not worth loving.
Since then you have grown to be a decent human being, we have made amends, and I do wish you the best.
The first time we dated was seemingly great. I was only fourteen, and just barely reached my freshman year of high school. You were in your senior year, a little over seventeen. For some reason, the age gap didn’t send any red flags to my family. We got close, fast. You became controlling, and pushed all of my friends away. My family still brings you up at Christmas, but I am too afraid to tell them that you were the worst person I have ever met. I can no longer look my mother in my eyes because I have lied to her for so long that none of our conversations feel real. I feel bad for my father because when I broke up with you I was too scared of hurting you that I told you that my dad made me do it.
Yet, for some ungodly reason, I came crawling back to you not even three months later. You had pushed all of my friends away, and my naive self assumed that it was healthy. I cannot believe that I honestly thought that things could change for the better, and not for the worse. I felt like I had nobody else, so we stayed together. You acted like life support and I felt like a dying patient holding onto anything that made me feel alive.
When you cheated on me, I acted like it didn’t affect me. I was scared of getting mad at you. Rather, I was scared of you. Did you know that the age of consent is sixteen? That you were eighteen when I was fifteen. Did you know that when I said no it wasn’t “playing hard to get”? That we dated for six months after you ***** me, because I had been so infatuated with you that I kept telling myself it was an accident. **** is no accident.
I could have loved you. You were so kind to me. I am sorry that I was too scared to fall in love. You were sweet, like honey, and I acted like I was allergic. Had our timing been better, we could have been something beautiful.
You were a bad idea. A simple summer fling that I did not ask for. Your thurst and plead for *** was overwhelming, smothering even. You acted as if I had to have *** with you, as if it was my duty as a woman to serve my ****** on a dinner plate. You were terrifying, and I did not know how to say no. After that night I blocked you on all of my social media and hoped you would leave me alone.
I will admit, our relationship was short lived, and barely worth mentioning. You were there when I needed someone. However, you were not there because I needed you, you were there because I was an easy tally on the list of girls you have had *** with. You somehow managed to sneak through the walls I have built up, and turned out to be more interested in the walls of my ******.
I learned awhile ago that sometimes men only want ***, but I had hoped that you were different. That somehow if I had embraced you with open legs instead of open arms you would find a reason to stay. I am not sure if it was the ***** in our systems that made me think it was a good idea to let you in my pants, or if it was your undying persistency.
Regardless, I am glad we broke up the day after. You were not the one for me, and I knew that from the beginning, I had just hoped you would have the decency to stay a little longer.
Loving someone as much as I love you is truly terrifying. In fact, I am too scared to tell you that I love you, just incase you don’t have anything to say back to me. You are the best man I have ever loved, and the only person who has earned my feelings.
You don’t act like I am helpless, but you understand that sometimes taking things slow is better. Your hands have rewrote the imprints that others have left on my body. You accept me for who I am, and love me the way I am meant to be loved.
You are the first man in my life to know the difference between bringing a woman down versus going down on a woman. You make sure I receive everything I need, and remember to ask if I am okay every step of the way. You treat my body as if you are walking on eggshells, and you refuse to break them more than they already are.