She loves the idea of love. It does not matter who is lighting up her eyes and making her day and holding her hand; as long as it is somebody. It was never about the person or the time or the place, as long as it was there, as long as there was somebody to grasp onto, she was in love.
She gets hooked. She goes through them like this - 1, 2, 3, 4. She will have anger swell in her veins over the simplest of things. She keeps looking for love in the form of young, confident, teenage boys, and has yet to realize that real love hardly ever settles there.
You’ll never know who she loves. It is kept under lock and key. There are pressed hips and words and that is that. You will never know if she loves you or not, she treats all of her admirers the same. She doesn’t know how to feel these things the right way; she knows how to behave like she does and what the process for everything is, but that’s it. You will never know if there could’ve been more to it because she doesn’t know herself.