What we had was a deep and sentimental love. We drowned in each other’s sadness. We were nearly suicidal at the thought of life without one another. We cried and complained and wallowed in our sorrow and our deadliest attempts. Everything was dark and passionate and we showed each other that the world was an awful place but together we could be safe with another victim.
When we broke up, I cried. And that’s an understatement. I was a mess, a snotty, weeping, uncontrollable mess. I’ve washed my pillowcase dozens of times since, and blurry smears of stained mascara still reside on the pink polka dotted pattern. Every day after you was darker and more bent than the last. Nothing brought me joy. I thought, if I couldn’t be with you, then why was I alive? My only purpose had been to be with you, to belong to you.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned what love was really about. My second love was the kind of love that showed me what my first love never was… And for that, I am eternally grateful.
With him, we complement each other. We bring each other happiness instead of combining our mutual depressions. Love can exist without heartbreak and mistrust and tears; this is something I never knew with you.
I would like to say that I learned something from you, or that I somehow benefitted from the time we shared. But god damn, I would be lying.
You are lovely and I am lovely, and yet together we bring nothing but toxicity. It has taken a comparison to greatness and true love to help me realize that ours never was. We had nothing but a mutual death wish.
Our scars make it evident that it would be dually beneficial if we had never even met.
K.A.B., In Regards to My First Love // (I’ve Deleted the Heart From Your Contact Info)