Adults always say that when you're young, you don't know what love is. When I was about five years old, I learned that love was a beautiful, yet manipulative emotion.
When I was five years old, I fell in love. It wasn't the first time I fell in love. I fell in love with my parents when I first set eyes on them, but it was a different kind of love. I realized I was in love because no matter where the boy went, my eyes would follow. Whenever he asked for something, I would do whatever I could to do what he asked. My feelings for him manipulated me to do many things. Things that were both good and bad. Every time our eyes met, it felt like I was floating.
When I was seven, this boy I loved moved away. I was devastated. My mother would ask what was wrong, but I never had an answer. What would she do if I told her that I was in love with another boy at the age of seven? She would tell me what all the adults told young people. You don't know what love is.
There were times when I wondered if perhaps the adults were right. Maybe I didn't know what love was, but I knew I felt something for that boy.
When I was twelve, the boy was back. He moved into the house next door. He hardly remembered me. It pained me because despite the fact that it had been years since I had seen him, I was still madly in love with him. I was only twelve, but I was head over heels with this boy who would pull girls hair because he wanted their attention. It hurt to watch, because I knew he would never love me. He could never love another male.
My mother noticed a change in me when he moved back into the neighborhood. I told her I was in love with him. That I had always been in love with him. She didn't say anything about how I don't know what love is. She just pulled me into her arms and said that it would be alright. After that, I could always feel her sorrowful gaze following me as I moved about the house. I could tell she pitied me. I was a boy, yet I loved another boy.
When I was fourteen, I asked my mother why she would always look at me with such pain. Her eyes glistened with tears, but she held them back. She wrapped her arms around me tightly and when she pulled away, everything changed.
That day, I watched my mother clutch at her heart as she experienced the heart attack that would end her life. I remember clumsily dialing 911 on the phone as I watched my mother. I remember how she looked so sad even in a moment of terror. I remember how the police were too late, and how I was forced to watch the light fade from my mother's eyes. Her eyes remained open. Empty windows staring up at the starless sky.
When I was sixteen, the boy I loved came up to me and asked why I didn't talk much. I almost didn't answer. How could this person, who could barely remember my name even though we were neighbors, have the audacity to ask me such a question. I told him words were valuable and that I didn't want them to lose their value. He stared at me for a good minute before he smiled. He held out his hand and introduced himself. He said that words were indeed valuable, but their value depended on the way you used them.
It was that day that I realized that I'd fallen for him all over again. He told me he felt like a complete idiot when he realized I was the person who lived next door. He asked me about my mother. He said it was almost as if he'd seen her walking down the driveway to get the mail just yesterday. I told him that was impossible, because she died two years ago. He stared at me for a while after that. He didn't say he was sorry, he didn't look at me with pity. That was what I loved about him. He knew that the words 'I'm sorry' lost their value the day I watched my mother's coffin lower into the ground.
He told me he lost his cousin a year ago. She killed herself. He told me about how she had sent him a poem before she did it. "The poem held her entire universe," he said. Her mother found her lying on her bedroom floor, staring up at the ceiling. Her arms were outstretched and she was smiling. She was finally free. He looked me in the eyes when he claimed that she had finally found her wings. I asked him if he thought she was watching over him, but he shook his head. She was free, and knew he could look after himself.
The next semester, the boy I loved got into car accident. He almost didn't make it. I visited him at the hospital and noticed how lifeless his eyes were. There was no spark when he looked at me. It was like he held no soul. I didn't say anything when I sat down in the seat beside his bed. I just stared silently at him. He stared back. Then, he reached out and took my hand in his. He asked me what it felt like. I was confused at first. He asked what it felt like to die.
"I don't understand." I said. He smiled. His gaze was hallow.
"You died the day your mother did. Maybe not physically, but mentally. A part of you died."
I stared at him and looked at my wrists. He was right. A part of me had died and to ease the pain I painted my wrists in red. I told him it was peaceful, like watching birds drink from a fountain. He pushed my sleeves up and kissed my scars. A spark lit up inside of him. It was then I wondered if another part of me was going to die.
It was on my seventeenth birthday when I got the call that my father had died. He was walking to the other side of the road in a hurry when a large truck ran into him. I heard whispers about how he was barely recognizable. He wasn't the only one people hardly recognized.
The day after that I stopped talking completely. The boy I loved didn't force me to talk, he just rambled on and on about various things. It was comforting, hearing his voice as he spoke. His voice was soothing and every time I closed my eyes, it was all I could hear.
It was a month after my father's death when it happened. I was sitting on his bed listening to him ramble on about how ridiculous it was that the girl he liked had picked some jerk over him. Without thinking, I kissed him. I leaned over and pressed my lips to his. I didn't close my eyes. He didn't either. We gazed into the windows of our souls and when we pulled away, it was like the glass had shattered. We didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say. We just caressed each other like lovers until dawn.
When I woke up, he was gone. I knew he wasn't going to come back, not this time. He left a note. It was a poem. Reading the poem was like a knife to my heart. The poem held his entire universe in it. It was the first time I cried in years. I hadn't cried when my mother died, I hadn't even cried when my father died. Now, here I was sobbing uncontrollably. I wanted it all to end. Love was cruel to me. Everything I loved killed me. I wasn't living anymore. I was dying.
His body was found eight days later. He drowned himself. He let the water swallow his entire being. He let the water wash away his sins, he let it wash away his memories, his life. Yet, no matter how many times the water kissed my skin, it could never wash away his touch. I could still feel his lips on my shoulder, I could still feel his breath on the back of my neck.
This boy I loved had left me. It wasn't long until more scars appeared on my skin. It wasn't long until I lost myself. No matter how many people I laid with, I couldn't get rid of him. He was a plague, and I was a victim.
On my eighteenth birthday, I fell in love. I fell in love with the blades that kissed my skin. I fell in love with the way I fell back against the soft material of my bed. I fell in love with the way I let my arms spread above my head. I fell in love with the sheets that were stained in red. I fell in love with the way I swallowed the last pill that would help me sleep. I fell in love with death.
My grandmother found me the next morning. My arms were splayed out above my head like wings. When she saw me, her heart nearly gave out. She told my aunt that I looked like an angel reaching out to the heavens.
I wasn't reaching out to the heavens, nor was I an angel.
I just spread my wings and learned how to fly.
