When I was a child I learned that love made the world go round.
I learned that my very creation became because of the love two people had for each other.
That love that brought them so close the heavens gifted their union by opening up the clouds and bringing forth new life.
I learned that love looked like spending days avoiding each other and sleeping with backs facing one another.
When I turned ten I learned that love sounded like screaming matches and broken plates.
Love looked like quiet dinners and long nights eavesdropping on hushed arguments.
At twelve love turned into separate houses and living in duffle bags and two Christmas’s.
I first fell in love at fifteen.
I was sure it was love, but then again my bright eyes didn’t see all the lies he kept locked away in his closet.
My next taught me love was desperately holding on and ignored calls and being brushed away.
Love then turned into smoke filled lungs and holding hands with a shell of him.
Grace came for me and granted me kind love, shared between the wrong people It didn’t resemble any love I had ever known. I let it drift away for cash transactions, my soul for a junkie’s.
My type of love was dime bags and self-medication and blackouts. It was being thrown against walls and hauled over shoulders and pinned to the ground and it was the looks between him and the one he said would never come between us.
I thought maybe that kind love could still be there, paused in time waiting for me to come back, but then love became a tug of war, one step forward, two steps back.
Life graced me with a second good love, but soon reminded me that love was right place, wrong time.
In my hour of need, love was a trade, me, my flesh, for the protection of four walls.
The world yelled in my ear, echoed in everyone's warnings, that it was time for me to build walls around my idea of love, around my heart, until that heart could love the sound of its own beating.
My love knew no bounds, disregarding the cautionary tales.
My love found chains to bind it, and connected to them a mouth to overwhelm my own voice and pummel my spirit to the floor then grind me into dust.
I have learned again and again, love is hurt, is pain, is a knife to the chest along with the one in the back.
Love is carrying the weight on someone else’s shoulders so they can turn around and forget I’m their spine, holding their head up high. To high to see the one they tower over.
Love is looking over my shoulder and keeping my head down.
Love is chills and panic when I hear him behind me, skin turned gooseflesh at his touch.
Love is cruel and love is curling up on the bathroom floor.
Love is overdoses in attempts to numb.
Love is an idea, a daydream, a speculation.
Life taught me this is what love is, and I can’t disagree.
Your love might be different, but mine will never change.