I was 18 the first time I heard the words  'I love you'. After the first tentative swallow I gathered them up with my hands and gorged. I reveled like a child raised without sugar smeared  to the eyebrows with the chocolate frosting of her first birthday cake.

 And love made sex innocent again.  I relished my mock virginity and even convinced myself that it doesn’t count if you don’t consent.

But for him it wasn't love, only upward mobility, and  I ripped myself apart throwing up the remains of my overzealous feasting.

Of course they always still want sex. Because love is love and sex is sex.

I threw myself into this chasm sampling sex like chocolates from a box.  I was always careful to lick off all of the chocolate without getting any of the sticky insides on my pretty dress. Who needs love anyway?

But eventually I  had tasted so many chocolates and the box was too full of broken remnants, so  I declared a fast from love and sex.

Time fled and the earth was surfeit with cumulative silences.

With all the gravity in the world,  I reached for one last chocolate from the box. I chose the one  that had been  there from the beginning, terrifying me with its familiarity, mocking me for my fear.

 I had made excuses to myself about looking and wanting. That one was not  for me. I was not even supposed to notice it. 

But I couldn’t not notice , and I couldn't not want.