In my life I have always been taught to put the greatest emphasis on the “first time.”
I was taught that the first time would always be the most important, the greatest, and the most meaningful.
I was taught that my “first times” were special moments where real life doesn't seem so real anymore.
I was taught that “first times” were magical and sacred, and I never thought that I could have “first times” that I did not want.
I never thought it possible that something as precious as a “first time” could break me down so hard that my skin turned to salt and I never imagined that a name associated with a “first time” could burn my lips and rot my teeth.
No, I always assumed that the names of the people who would perform the coronation of my “first times” would slide off my tongue like water, but instead they have forced their way down my throat like molasses wrapped in barbed wire, and since then I’ve been having trouble breathing. No, I did not realize that something so seemingly harmless could lead me to typing poem after poem, always in Helvetica because that was the font you used to write me love songs, laced with lies and sad attempts at keeping things alive.
I never imagined that when I cried you would shush me, and say “it’s alright,” then move on as if you hadn’t known. As if you couldn’t see that I felt wrong, that no, nothing was alright.
No, not a single damn thing was alright.
But through the creaking beds and the nights spent cradling a toilet of my first times I have realized that “first times” are supposed to feel like shit.
They are meant to burn, and break, and bruise, and ache so that eventually you can heal. So that eventually you can gather enough hope to think that someday you’ll be able to get it right.