I’ve met love three times.

The first time I met love, she had short, chocolate hair and bright blue eyes. She loved the thrill of four wheelers and the warmth of helping people. I remember the first time we met. Love wanted to sit next to me at the first football game. Love was eager for my attention. Love brought out the best in everyone she spoke to. Love sent electricity through my body for the first time. One night at her lake house, love set out candles and said she was falling in love with me. Love never wanted me to leave her. After one vicious year, love and I couldn’t be together anymore because of the insufferable pressure my family put on us.

Half a year later, I met love again. Only this time, she had dark eyes and a lip ring. On the outside, love was the life of the party as sweet laugher bursted out of her small body. On the inside, love was deeply pained and hollow. Love hurt herself frequently. Love got high off of anything she could find. Love’s father was an alcoholic. Love’s brother overdosed and love was high at his funeral. Love locked eyes with me across the room of a crowded party and sent chills down my spine. I wanted to fill and fix all of love’s voids, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even come close. Love slept with other people and didn’t fight me when I left. Love meant well, but I never really figured her out.

Three years ago, Love came into my life again. Love is the kind of freckle-faced brunette that people described as charming, sneaky and fun. Love has great dimples that show when she flashes her winner smile. However, love has a mask that she wears. Love has a drug addict mother and doesn’t know what an apology is. Love is very hard to write about. After love had successfully seduced me into her tight grips, she crushed my heart. Love introduced me to the darkest, most lonely, insecure and sad part of myself. Love was constantly disappointing, but also my best friend. She once was a safe home, but now, is a loud and obnoxious stranger at our local college bar.