To all the boys I have “loved” before.

JR.

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.

DC.

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.

To TJ,

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.

RH.

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.

ZS.

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.

To DD,

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.

Thank you.

it has been over two years and i am proud of my growth. my main focus this year is to finish my grieving so that i may continue my life in an efficient manner.
the process of grieving is commonly known as, but not limited to:

denial
anger
bargaining
depression
acceptance

my denial proces:
many times the easiest way to get over trauma is to repress it. i was 15 when i was ra ped. legal age of consent is 16. he was 18. i was naive, and could not imagine the man i loved doing that to me. i believed that it was an accident and neither of us knew what was right or wrong. I had assumed that because i had previously given him my body, he was able to ignore my pleads to stop this time. i blamed myself more than i blamed him, and he blamed me. i had been so infatuated with him that i had pushed away the people who cared most about me. when i told them about being ***** our bond was already so far gone that they could not feel anything more than pitty. i was terrified of losing him, so i convinced us both it was an accident. ra pe is no accident.

through denial became anger:
i became genuinely angry for the first time in my life. i was angry at him for being somebody that i had trusted and loved. angry that i had let this happen to myself. angry that i had no strength nor respect to stand up for myself. if i had told him to stop one more time he would have. i understand now that i should not have had to say no more than once. i was angry because i let myself down, but I’m more angry that i could not blame him. being angry was the easiest part of grieving. it is okay to he angry.

bargaining is a toxic healing method:
i became really good at bargaining with myself. after he was gone i had begun to understand my emotions, but i could not control them. my fear of more being taken from me fed my overcompensation. i began to give my body away, so that it could not be taken. it was an unhealthy coping mechanism. my body is not meant to be given nor taken.

depression hit hard:
i began to reflect on all of the points in my life that had lead me to this one. i became close to restarting the grieving process. i spent a long portion of the depression stage in denial. then i was angry that i had backtracked to the beginning. i had more meaningless se x that i now regret more than anything. i saw how good his life had been going and how poorly mine was. it was obvious that i needed help.

acceptance:
this entire passage was my process to acceptance. i reached out to my therapist. i made new friends. i stopped wallowing in self pity and i began to recover. i stopped begging to forget my flaws and began to forgive them.

love is one sided.
no matter the amount of reciprocation, the affection emitted from my very being is in-malleable.

love may be given, and the one loving will strive for reciprocation.

their love may be placed upon your body,
awaiting discovery.
you may choose to accept it,
it is not a requirement,
simply an option.
and once you take it,
it becomes yours,
the return is not an obligation.

you gave me your love once,
but I did not want to give it back.
it was not my duty to love you.

at five years old, your grandfather died
you were too young to understand
why your mother was crying
but you sat there and held her hand.
you were there for her,
she needed you.
shortly after you turned eight,
your mother gave birth to another child.
she paid less attention to you,
but you were patient.
because she was happy.
during junior high you had your first dance.
your mother took you to lessons for a month,
dressed you in a nice suit,
and took countless pictures of you and your date.
you were embarrassed,
but didn’t say anything.
you loved it when she was happy.
as you got older, about 17, your mother was diagnosed with cancer.
she needed you,
and you were by her side.
you were there every moment of every day.
you gave her comfort,
took care of her.
when she passed later that year,
you were devastated.
she had left, and along with her went everything she had taught you

about treating a woman.

my first love was at the age of 13. he taught me that if you are unhappy, you are not worth the effort. he taught me that the word “no” is a sin. he taught me how to keep quiet and obey, no matter how much it may hurt.
my second love was when i was 15. he taught me that open legs are better than an open mouth. he taught me that love is not an option to girls who do not give themselves away.
they taught me how to give them everything, and feel guilty for wanting anything in return.
i found love again after i was 17. she taught me that, unless you are willing to love yourself, you cannot find another person that is worth your time, as you are not worth theirs. she stopped believing in me, so that i could believe in myself.

i'd like to think that time made us seperate. that somehow, our bodies grew too big for our hearts, and that is why there is so much space between us.
i'd like to tell myself that we would still have the ability to love each other, but over time my hands stopped fitting with yours.
i'd like to be sure that time made us fall apart. that we simply moved on, drifted away, lost feeling. over time.
i'd like to blame our fighting on time. over time our screaming made us lose our voices, and along with the voices went our reasons to talk.
i'd like to convince myself that in a universe where time is an irrelevant concept, our love would be flourishing.

here is what i believe the difference between loving something and being in love with something is:

using today's loose connotation, loving something is inconsistent. you can love objects, colors, people, sounds, etc. overall, considered an "easy" emotion. loving something is more platonic than being in love with something.
being in love is, more or less, a long lived infatuation. if you love something, the feeling is touch and go, and may not last forever. when you are in love, there will always be a trace of admiration that lingers for you to cherish. you cannot be in love with someone if you do not love them first. however, it is easy to love something without being in love.

a clear understanding on loving versus being in love is nearly impossible, and will often oscillate between who you are asking and what you are loving

loving you was easy
but **** it, i was never in love.

last night i was told that if i was truly *****, i wouldnt be “dressing like a ****”.

-

after you are touched by another person, they leave an invisible trace in your mind and on your body. that is not your fault.

it takes roughly seven years for the cells in your body to replace themselves. the past year has been spent in a state of hate filled dysphoria, and i refuse to allow him to claim any more of that time. my cells are in a state of rebirth, and i am patient with them.

unlike most **** victims, i have begun to learn to love my body. it is not my body’s fault that it was too weak to push him off of it. my body did not ask him to **** it, it specifically told him not to.

in six years, i will have a body that he did not touch. i am still affected by what happened, but i have accepted that it is not my fault.

i am unholy, i have been touched. i have felt the hands of despair, and looked into the eyes of wrath. i have formed bonds with the sloth inside me, found hope in avarice, and not once looked back.

i am unholy, and can only be filled with the envy that resides deep within my bones.

i am unholy, but i am not vain. there is no pride in my soul, and no soul in my body. there is nobody in the world that will hide the mark that you have left.

i am unholy, i have been touched by your hands, looked into your eyes, and mistaken your lust for love. i have formed bonds with your soul, and tied myself to your ribcage. i have allowed my hope to be swallowed, and failed to question the holes being drilled into my happiness.

i am unholy, but you are the devil