It was the first time he danced me around his living room like a fine oak puppet to loud music raging through the air. I felt wildly alive in his arms.
It was the first time he told me he loved me. The fuzz on the back of my neck rose to my ears to say, "This is only the third date," but I said it back anyway.
It was the first time he took me to an expensive dinner. "I know you dont get this often, but money isn't an issue with me." My stomache turned as the food on my plate began to sneer.
It was the second time he did not stop when I said no. I was lifeless, as my soul had already departed. He loves me, right? I must be the one to blame.
It was the third time he hit me. My hair was feral from being dragged across the floor. My body wreaked of poppy bruises. He did not cry afterwards like usual.
At the time, I thought he was everything and I would never get nor deserve better; until I left and stumbled upon you.
Time isn't an issue with you. Yes, it took years to find you, but I was healing. I was searching for the missing pieces that had been beaten out of me.
You tell me, "Have fun and be safe," when I go out with my friends, not tearing me down because I even considered leaving the house without you.
You don't swing me around when we dance. It is slow and instead of feeling wildly alive, it feels as though the demons in my chest have been put to sleep.
You sit on the lid on the toilet every morning and listen to me ramble while I do my makeup, bringing us both a cup of coffee before the process has even started.
You tell me I am beautiful whether I have spent two hours getting ready or I have slosh running out of all the crevices on my face after a bad day.
You are my best friend before my lover. This is the first time that I know what love actually means.