I was 16. You were 18.
I was on top. You were on bottom.
The kind of love that is unbreakable.
Skipping school to nap and eat late breakfast.
Kissing by the railroad tracks.
You were the only one who really loved my short hair.
Watching you put on your skinny jeans became my new obsession.
Always grabbing the small of my back while kissing me.

We fought as hard as we loved.
Manipulative arguments with hurtful undertones.
Breaking photo frames just to keep me near.
Running down the stairs, grabbing my wrists.
I fell against the wall as you pushed yourself on me.
Here we go, falling again.
I was too young to be dealing with this adult criteria.

That day, I went to your bathroom.
I came out as you sat on the edge of your bed.
My palms sweating, in my hand, a pregnancy test.
I began to cry.
I couldn't be a mother-I couldn't even care for myself.
He looked at me and grabbed my waist.
"You being pregnant wouldn't be the worst thing..."
I started falling for him yet again.
"You'd be a great mom, Ash."

Beep. Beep.

Negative.