My first love was a child. I was a child, of course. Innocent and unknowing of the truths of the world. I hated myself, thought myself unworthy of any love or attention because I felt disgusting. My first love instilled a sort of feeling in me, mainly because I had the belief that he held no such prejudices towards me. He'd only look at me with fondness as he communicated through comedic words and soft looks.
He had flaws, he never once loved me in the way I loved him. It was understandable to me, because I was disgusting and unworthy of love and attention. He wanted a pure girl, soft and delicate, angelic and sweet spoken. I held on anyways, as he kept me around as long as he could. He stuck around for me, or so that's what I'm to believe.
He had an influence on my character in ways I forget until I truly think of it. As a child with anxiety I was never one to try new things, start new hobbies. He was the first to buy me my favorite drink, taking a sip out of it from time to time as I walked around the courtyard. I played my first podcast in order to appease him, to find something to talk about with him. Yet he is gone and the hobby remains.
He'd hold my hand, grab me by the shoulders, walk me to my destination. And I was content with it all, it made me feel like he was mine. He'd cry to me at night, tell me I'm better than the rest, tell me I'm so good. Then again, he left.
I thought I must've been too cruel, for his consecutive lovers were very similar to myself in ways I noticed. They liked color, they baked, they sang, with pale skin and red lips. They were delicate of course, thin frail bodies with bony hands.
He'd get upset with my discontent at his lovers, called me "judgey" even if I hadn't said a word. I was upset as well, why was I to care for his lovers? Why does he care what I think?
Because he never wanted me, truly he never did. He wanted a distraction from the real goal, the real lover in his sight. Everything I fixated on in the previous years was nothing to him.
And one day I realized I could no longer humor him. He asked me, verbatim: "Are we on good terms?" I responded in two days time that I no longer wanted to associate with him. It was difficult, he was my best friend. But he was unsustainable.
Sometimes I look back fondly at everything he'd done for me. But now I remember the true state of it all. My declining mental health and sense of self security did not fit well with his condescension. And even if he cared for me, he doesn't love me.
He never did; it's all in the past.