Not Always Beautiful
Anonymous
Love brings butterflies, ladybugs, and fireflies. You don’t truly understand the sight of these creatures all at once until you experience the feeling first hand. My mother always told me, “you are stronger and smarter than any boy,” but lately I’ve been having difficulty believing that. See, because with all the bright lights and the pastel wings, love also brings about scorpions, black widow spiders, and hornets; mean, ugly beings whose only intent is to harm and poison. You don’t truly understand the sight of these creatures all at once until you experience the feeling first hand.
My warped perception of these emotions stems from when I was 14. Easy to please, ready to get out into the hearts of those around me. Willing to do anything to experience just one taste of him.
English class, 9th grade. Nothing special.
His name is what drew me to him. I had planned on naming my son the same his mom had. Something about saying that name, about hearing it, about having it sprint through my head while I was speaking to him, was so appealing to me.
Next, it was the words he spoke. To me, me. I had been the coach in everyone’s game of lust my whole adolescence. Now, I was on the other side of things. I was staying up late writing onto paper the fire he set within me, and I was going over every last detail of every conversation, because the details really do mean so, so much. I was finally on the side that I had wanted to be on since I was 11 and I watched my beautiful best friend get asked out by the boy I had liked. His way with words that of a poet, a selfish, scheming poet. And no matter what he did from this point on, my heart would always be clouded with the Southern hue of his eyes.
Then, it was realization. His girlfriend probably went through this phase too. I was too far in when I found out about her, too emotionally invested. This is when I found out my mother was wrong. I wasn’t strong at all, I was weak, because he had greased down my hinges to silence all my creaking and noise. I thought I was finally getting what I had always wanted, but it was too much more than that. Too much more.
Finally came defeat; as every battle eventually ends with. I ran out into a blizzard the night he left. I cried myself dry as I sat in the snow. I drank myself into oblivion because throwing up your father’s alcohol hurts a lot less than the gaping hole that now resided in my chest. I cursed my mother and her words; she lied. Why tell someone so passionate and malleable that they are strong and smart? Why fill my mind with the same false hope he did? I struggled to get out of bed. I struggled to hear the words, “You are too young to know what love feels like,” because not only did I feel it, I saw it, with my own eyes. I saw the smirk on his face, and I saw the glistening excitement in his pupils, and I saw the warm glow his cheeks took on. Except it wasn’t when he looked at me, no; only regret and sexual desire when he looked at me.
Love is a soft summer breeze, a kiss from the sun in August, and the green grass beneath our feet - but it is also tornados, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions, and sometimes you slip through the cracks and get buried under the rubble.
Anonymous
Love brings butterflies, ladybugs, and fireflies. You don’t truly understand the sight of these creatures all at once until you experience the feeling first hand. My mother always told me, “you are stronger and smarter than any boy,” but lately I’ve been having difficulty believing that. See, because with all the bright lights and the pastel wings, love also brings about scorpions, black widow spiders, and hornets; mean, ugly beings whose only intent is to harm and poison. You don’t truly understand the sight of these creatures all at once until you experience the feeling first hand.
My warped perception of these emotions stems from when I was 14. Easy to please, ready to get out into the hearts of those around me. Willing to do anything to experience just one taste of him.
English class, 9th grade. Nothing special.
His name is what drew me to him. I had planned on naming my son the same his mom had. Something about saying that name, about hearing it, about having it sprint through my head while I was speaking to him, was so appealing to me.
Next, it was the words he spoke. To me, me. I had been the coach in everyone’s game of lust my whole adolescence. Now, I was on the other side of things. I was staying up late writing onto paper the fire he set within me, and I was going over every last detail of every conversation, because the details really do mean so, so much. I was finally on the side that I had wanted to be on since I was 11 and I watched my beautiful best friend get asked out by the boy I had liked. His way with words that of a poet, a selfish, scheming poet. And no matter what he did from this point on, my heart would always be clouded with the Southern hue of his eyes.
Then, it was realization. His girlfriend probably went through this phase too. I was too far in when I found out about her, too emotionally invested. This is when I found out my mother was wrong. I wasn’t strong at all, I was weak, because he had greased down my hinges to silence all my creaking and noise. I thought I was finally getting what I had always wanted, but it was too much more than that. Too much more.
Finally came defeat; as every battle eventually ends with. I ran out into a blizzard the night he left. I cried myself dry as I sat in the snow. I drank myself into oblivion because throwing up your father’s alcohol hurts a lot less than the gaping hole that now resided in my chest. I cursed my mother and her words; she lied. Why tell someone so passionate and malleable that they are strong and smart? Why fill my mind with the same false hope he did? I struggled to get out of bed. I struggled to hear the words, “You are too young to know what love feels like,” because not only did I feel it, I saw it, with my own eyes. I saw the smirk on his face, and I saw the glistening excitement in his pupils, and I saw the warm glow his cheeks took on. Except it wasn’t when he looked at me, no; only regret and sexual desire when he looked at me.
Love is a soft summer breeze, a kiss from the sun in August, and the green grass beneath our feet - but it is also tornados, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions, and sometimes you slip through the cracks and get buried under the rubble.