More and more I’ve been thinking about how you ruined me. Skinny little girl arms and legs and tummies and chests, being touched for the first time, just a little-girl-playing-big with a boy-who-was-already-big. I peeled off layer after layer until I lay in front of you, exposed, fighting the urge to cover myself with my hands because it was you, because I trusted you, more than I’ve ever trusted another person. I would have let you lead me into a burning building.

I always heard that there’s nothing like your first love. I never quite understood until recently. There was nothing like my first love because I put all of myself into it, into you, pressing myself into your hands, trusting that you would take care of me.

I didn’t know, until I was in another boy’s bed years later, him kissing up and down my neck, me feeling the first awful tickle of panic in my chest. I didn’t know, until he told me that he loved me, til I felt every muscle in my body tense up like I had run into a ******* war zone.

I didn’t know. I’ve broken up with every single boy since you. I didn’t know. I haven’t been above to love any of them right because of you. Because you ruined me.

There’s nothing like your first love, they said. And they were right. It’s been four years and I’m still trying to pry my heart out of his filthy hands.