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.