Fuck.

Once, I wrote an essay about scab on my body that healed into a scar.  Once, I wrote things that made sense to me.  It’s very hard to write things that make sense when your world stops making sense.

I used to love someone. I used to love several someones.

I used to love someone who took my virginity in his TV room, several feet away from his parents, as they watched TV.

I used to love someone who told me that I would only be attractive if I lost 60lbs (not that it stopped him from having sex with me whenever he wanted).

I used to love someone who abandoned me at a hotel 3 hours away from home so he could go drink with other girls.

I used to love someone but only when we were in bed.

I used to love someone…but not as much as he loved me.

I still love some of these people, as hard as I try not to.

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