“My mom doesn’t believe in love. I think she stopped after my dad painted her soft skin with the harsh colors of blue and purple one too many times. Or maybe it was after the nights he came home smelling of cheap perfume she’d never wear. Or no, I bet she stopped when he picked their son as the canvas for his unwarranted anger. Growing up, she’d tell me that she’d pray God would make her heart like stone, like the rocks that the sea beats against over and over; she craved their inability to feel. She claims her prayers were answered, but sometimes, when she sees old couples walking hand in hand still very much in love, she turns to me with a sad smile and reveals that she always thought that’d be her and him and I have to look away. That smile, it’s her achilles heel; it tells of her shattered dreams and whispers softly of her broken heart.
My mom doesn’t believe in love. As soon as I could understand the concept she drilled it into my head that there was no such thing. She thought it was a waste of time, sneered at those who tried to say it was one of the things worth living for. Unnecessary, dangerous was how she described it. She said she’d be damned if I fell into its trap and ruined my life for a boy that would leave me broken.
Now I don’t know how to tell her that I feel the things she warned against. I dont know how to tell her that my heart jumps when I look into his eyes or press my lips to his. I don’t know how to tell her that I fell for a boy with plain brown eyes and a smile that reminds me of the sun. I don’t know how to tell her that I gave him my heart and now he has the power to ruin me.