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.How strange that I end up covered in chocolate and savoring each surprising bite of love.