My first love taught me how to breathe again. She replaced all the nails in my throat with roses. Her favorite kind of flower. So that every breath I took was filled with a sweet aroma that reminded me of her. And when she left I choked on every last thorn in an attempt to swallow my sadness and forget the smell of roses. God, I hate roses. But I don’t hate her. I will love her until I learn to love myself again. Until I learn to breathe again.

~ My first love turned me into a walking garden and I’m still coughing up dead petals.