'Cause My Momma Taught Me Better Then That

There was a little girl standing in front of the mirror over the sink in her bathroom and she rests her chin on her hands, elbows on the edge of the sink.

Almost every night when she did this, she wonders what she is going to look like when she’s older. The prospect of 3rd grade seems as distant as the prospect of college.

And then one day she looks in the mirror and she realizes 3rd grade was 11 years ago and the face in the mirror is being deliberately etched into its adult features.

It was suggested to me that it would be best to marry the first person you love, that you never really stop loving them. Or maybe not, perhaps it was a figment of my stupor.
Either way, it is a fine line between love and hate. And I would argue that you also always hate the first one you love.

First they take away the illusion that they won’t be the first one you love.

Then they take away the illusion that they will be the best one you love.

Like pride, it fucks. You, with you and you over.

And then we all eventually give up. Weak and raped by our pride we all do it sooner or later. And then stuff happens you know… accidents.

No really I swear, she tripped, slipped and fell on my dick.

And then you start to get confused why you wake up jerked bolt upright by some night terror. You’re lost in the corner of a dark and dank room that smells of sex, a boy is lying on the bed and a girl is slamming herself down on him so hard his balls bounce a little, a glistening track of sweat crawls down her back. And you think that maybe the boy looks familiar but that was ages ago. And it’s not because you love them best, it’s not even because it’s best to love them. It’s really just because they are the first one you love.

And you may think they’ll come crawling back. They usually do and you never have the heart to squish anything, not even the cockroaches that infested your kitchen for a while.
And the problem with when they come crawling back is that they’re always sorry they did it. Groveling and telling you they’ll do better.

And you hope and pray that there have been enough of those accidents in the interim that for once, you can take your pride and use it to fuck someone else over for a change.

But that’s the thing with mood swings, one minute they are penitent, clothed in a hair shirt. And they can only grovel for so long before they start feeling they’ve atoned for whatever sins but all they’ve really done is say they are sorry. And your memory is no better.

And what kills you is that feeling of looking in the mirror and seeing the faintest lines that in a decade will be deeply carved into your face.

Least I forget to be soft sometimes.