Since I was little,
Ideas of love were thrown at me.
"I've loved your dad since I was 10."
"When it's true love you'll know."
But it's also a concept that is a constant back and forth.
"You're too young."
"Don't throw that word around."
As a younger child,
I was force fed fairy tales
and brainwashed into thinking I needed
a savoir, a knight in armor.
I was told someday I'd fall in love,
and I'd feel it with all my being.
"Love is magical."
But oh god,
as soon as I spit out that word,
the moment I believe the stories,
I was wrong for one reason or another.
"Those are fighting words."
It makes my angsty, teenage heart
that much harder to decode,
and I'm not good with math
or feelings.
⠀
I know these are all warnings of care,
but it has installed a fear in me.
I am constantly reminded to shy away,
reminded that this word
has changed my family.
(I guess you could say it's the Voldemort of emotions.)
My mother installed this fear first.
She mistook abuse for love.
She still does today,
but I keep my mouth shut about it.
⠀
I am 13 when I say,
"I am in love with the sky."
She stares at the road and says,
"Don't throw that word around."
⠀
But why shouldn't I?
Whatever the hell this love is,
it carries the most beautiful things.
So goddamn let me love the sky,
and love spring,
and love boxed mac and cheese,
and love selfies,
and love laughing,
and love you.
⠀
I asked again what love was,
now at an older age.
Again she answers,
"You just know."
It is followed with another,
"But you're still young."
It tears me in two because she's right.
I am young.
But I know.
⠀
Love is straining my eyes at 11 pm,
smiling softly at a screen,
because even just 2 more messages
will keep the anxieties away
(even if it's just a tad longer).
It is wanting to memorize everything.
The curve of the corners of your lips,
the squint of your smiling eyes,
the feeling of your hand in mine.
⠀
Love is drowning in your existance,
taking note of how your chest rises
and falls,
and how your lips form words.
⠀
Love is shaky knees,
and counting down hours,
and sweaty palms,
and small kisses,
and never ending happiness,
and a fire in my chest late at night
when I miss you.
⠀
Love is the little things.
It's melting everytime you smile,
and butterflies at hearing your name,
and being so goddamn happy.
It is knowing I'm the luckiest girl alive.
⠀
Maybe I am too young.
Maybe they are fighting words.
Maybe it is too soon.
Maybe I am nothing more than a
teenager who doesn't know the weight of my words.
Maybe it is just puppy love.
But goddamn,
in some form of the word,
I think I might love you.
