when i met my first boyfriend i was a gaping wound
my personality was the hole my father spent years drilling into my chest
he was dating two other girls at the time
we all knew we were all okay with it
i didn't like it but i kept at it anyway because i needed someone
anyone
to tell me things about myself i could shove in the cavernous chamber of my empty heart to try and stop the bleeding
that isn't to say i didn't love him
i loved him even when he fell asleep without saying good night
even if i hated that
i loved him when i shouldn't have
i stayed with him when he cheated on me because i was so afraid no one else would ever give me a second glance
and because i thought i loved him i did things i wish i could take back, that leave me feeling alone and scared and violated
when i met my second boyfriend i had a crush on somebody else
and i was a scared little girl, far away from home and missing people i could never see again
my personality was a time bomb, ticking ticking ticking it's way to mania or depression or anxiety which is a lot like a little bit of both
the wound in my chest had closed all wrong and the skin was uneven and grey
i held both my hands over the gash
until he pried them away gently
keeping me distracted with conversation about books and off handed compliments
when i met my second boyfriend i was scared because i could never figure out exactly what he wanted
or what i was doing with someone so clearly out of my league
i loved him before i noticed that i loved him
and it hit me like a ton of bricks the first time i saw him
when i opened the door and the first thing he did was open his arms
and i was terrified because i am gunshy in every sense of the word
i don't like loud sudden noises and i don't like loud sudden emotions
but he was gentle even as he touched all the rough edges of me
when i told him i loved him for the first time i said in the typographical equivalent of a whisper
knowing he wouldn't say it back
but he did
when i called him my boyfriend for the first time i'd already been in love with him for months
when he tells me i am beautiful i have trouble believing him
but i paper my body in his words like wallpaper bandaids hoping they will cover up the scars that just won't heal
when i say his name it rolls across my tongue like rock candy; sweet and rough and permanent
when he tells me he loves me, even if he says it ten times a day, it is as new and wonderful as surprising as the first time
when we fight, after we make up, he says i'm sorry, even when it wasn't his fault
and when he looks at me, it's a little easier to keep my hands away from the scar across my chest