They never tell you how hard it is to love someone. Or how hard it is to be loved.
The first person you ever think you love is the shift manager of the restaurant of your first job. He’s twenty, four years older than you, and you don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. All you remember about this first love, the one you aren’t ever supposed to forget, is that your first kiss was a shotgun hit of weed that turned into tongues and teeth mashed together, that later he vomited tequila in the sink and then you fucked in the spare room of your friend’s house. You were so drunk you didn’t realize you started your period and it looked like a crime scene, which seems appropriate now. Anymore, sex and love seem like crime.
Continue reading “I’ll Tell You Your History by L’Erin Ogle”
