An Open Letter to My First Love

My First Love,

I want....no, I need you to realize that I loved you first. Before you ever loved me, I was head-over-heals for you. I locked eyes with you and lost a part of myself in their deep blue abyss. You took a piece of me and honestly, I don't want it back. You can have it. It's yours to keep forever and ever. I will always be incomplete because of you. I've grown to accept that. I've learned to compensate. I limp because of you. I hide bits and pieces of myself in fear that someone might steal them from me like you stole that part of me. Just the important parts, though. Just the parts I'm afraid of losing because I just don't think I'd survive another theft like that.

It's important that you know that I don't blame you. I don't hate you. In fact, I still love you....very much so. I still have dreams about you. I still wonder what it would have been like if we had fallen into deep, real, long-lasting love. I wonder what it would have been like if you left me whole. I wonder what kind of a neighborhood we would have lived in, if we would have had kids, if we would be friends with our neighbors and participate in the PTA. I wonder if you'd beg me to let you paint my writing room the same way you begged me to let you paint all over my writing notebook....to "inspire" me, you said. I still have that notebook, you know. I can't bring myself to throw it away. I don't know if it's because of what I've written inside or because I'm still clinging to you through that paint you left on the cover. It's just attached to me like a tan line that won't fade. It's always there. Sometimes I take it out and look at it. I flip through the pages of my sobbing teenage years and smell that scent you always had on you: paint mixed with a subtle hint of crayons. And I remember. I remember what it was like to be with you, to laugh and argue and make out on the futon in your parents house. I remember watching you stare at the canvas, paintbrush in your mouth, smudges of color all over your face and in your hair. And I remember the way your arms felt around me when we would watch movies together. See? It wasn't all bad. Just the end. And I don't even really remember the end...or I choose not to. I'm not sure which.

I also need you to know that I never told anyone what really went on between us. Whenever I spoke of you, it was almost always a lie. When I was mad, I made up stories that turned you into a monster. But when I was happy, I turned you into a prince in shining armor. To my friends, you were whatever I needed you to be. I lied to you and about you. For that, I'm sorry. You have to understand that you fulfilled my teen angst and hormone-driven lust. You were my first love and very much a convenient escape. You made me feel like trash. You made me feel special. I was special trash to you. Special trash that you know is garbage but you can't bring yourself to throw it away. To you, I was that notebook I cling to.

Love,
your special trash,
K