I had an English professor tell me that love was hard to write.
At first, I scoffed at her. I'd written about love almost all my life.
But then I realized that I'd only been writing about what I thought love was.
I wrote about men who put their hands around my neck all the while thinking of how easy it'd be to snap it.
I wrote about people I'd considered my friends who held their hands out to me for help only to turn their backs when I asked the same of them.
I wrote about people who came into my life with promises of warmth and understanding, but took my clothes off and never helped me put them back on.
I thought love was supposed to hurt because it was all I'd ever done. In all honesty, I don't know what love is.