Taylor Brooks

I remember saying, “No, I’m not ready.”

We are delicate, little flowers. We are dramatic, and frantic, and we need a big, strong man to tell us it is all okay. Enter our physicians.

He only held me down in the back bedroom of a house party, forcing me to explore his body, despite the tears in my eyes and the bruises on my wrists. He only hovered over me in the dark, removed his clothes, and menacingly whispered, “You’re going to lose it to me eventually, mark my words.” But, you’re right. He never even raped me.

Three years after you, and I am with the most amazing man I have ever known. He knows me inside and out, but you’ll always know me just a little bit better, won’t you?

When you are eighteen, you will be with someone, and you will truly think that you love him. You will think he hung the moon and you will think he’s changed for you. But he didn’t, and you don’t.

If you ever leave me, I will remember the moment I fell in love with you. I will remember the way everything felt like slow motion and warp speed all at once.

You loved the way you could so easily convince me to stay with you, or give something up for you. Most of all, you loved the way that, no matter what you did, I would always find a way to excuse your behavior. But, you never loved me.

The soles of my bare feet will have never danced on your kitchen floor with my favorite song playing in the background. The tips of my fingers won’t remember how it felt to graze your cheek or run through your hair.

They will tell you that I’m doing well, and that they really think I’m going to be somebody. They will awkwardly apologize, forgetting for a moment that you and I were not always long lost friends, but lovers instead. You will say that you’re happy for me, and then excuse yourself, and then go home alone.

Every now and then, I have to remind myself why I loved you. I have to remind myself that you weren’t always a bad idea.