To All the Boys Who I Didn't Love Myself For

I loved so many boys with pretty eyes. The boy who told me to drink grapefruit juice before my district spelling bee competition because it was supposed to make me smarter. The same boy who wrote be a cute card when I qualified for state saying, "it was the grapefruit juice, I tell ya!". The boy who played cello across from me in middle school orchestra, who later would drop a hedgehog made of the wax from a Babybel cheese as a gift on my desk. The boy who did all of the science competitions with me and would message me about homework, but would never give me the time of day in person. The first boy I tried to do the deed with only to be thwarted by ill-fitting parts and too much shame to try again. These were the boys who I fluttered for, the ones who made it impossible to think around, the ones who made my glasses fog up during an unexpected run in. I always said too little around these boys that I loved, keeping my love to myself because words were a risky investment when there was no guarantee of words back.

I stopped loving boys with pretty eyes because who needs love as a prerequisite for intimacy if you're a radical modern woman with thoughts and desires beyond the confines. Grapefruit juice was replaced by the boy who tried to finish off a whole case of Twisted Teas to prove a point. What the point was, unclear. Hedgehog was rewritten by the first boy who managed to stab it in, leaving as much of a mess as would be expected if you were to actually have a run in with the prickly animal. Mismatched parts overshadowed by the repeated pain from forced parts, distorted parts, replaceable parts. Messages were replaced by no messages at all after the deed was done. Wham bam, thank you ma'am, as was once put so eloquently by someone I knew. But one thing was still the same. No words. 

No words said when it felt like skin being ripped apart, abraded, burned. No words said when the casual slap triggered flash backs to the days of corporal punishment from a disciplinarian mother. No words said because words couldn't be said when no air is allowed to pass through your vocal cords as your airway is cut off. No words because it's easier to decide that this is what you wanted anyways, that the first time doesn't matter as an empowered woman, that it doesn't hurt when no words are ever exchanged after. 

I've always wanted the wholesome. The person who would move the bowl of popcorn before starting a pillow fight. But what I accepted were the boys who left a mess at the site of my body. To all the boys who I didn't love myself for...