Virginity

I posted back her flower. A tiny dried iris, crumpled and earthy, slowly rotting away to nothing. She gave it to me years ago. We were 16 when she left it in my bed. She was throwing it away anyway, so I took it.

But later, when that time was over, and we grew up, we realised what love was. And how much we weren't in love.

I really didn't understand how expensive that commodity was.
We broke up. And though we werent in love, I had never hurt more. She was not the one but the only.
The day to day hurt, where I thought I was getting on fine, not thinking about it, and then I'd see a dried flower that reminded me of her, and the wound was opened again fresh, a rending jagged hole, in the root of my stomach, slowly spreading upwards, infecting the lungs, so I couldn't breathe, except in brief painful sobs and moans. And moving on from that immediate pain, where a shadow cast on my soul when I saw her picture, or heard her name in conversation, or just thought of her when there was nothing fresher to feel down about. I became a loner, My head became my home. People meant danger.

Because we were so happy to need each other, we were lost in the unreality of teen addiction. We needed the esteem, the friend, and the hope. Because without hope, you don't survive your teens. So we ignored the face in the mirror for so long, we couldn't face them anymore. Until one day she faced reality, and it was over. She did it for the both of us.
I'm so proud of her for that. I could never face the end. So she faced it for me. And she let me blame her, and blame her, and blame her. She just let it happen, she knew I couldn't move on, she knew my storm wouldnt break. Until, like a wave crashing on a shore, things became brutal. We were tossed out into the world, swung about on the waves, clawing for breath and kicking for grip. Thoughts turned away from love, because just breathing became too important.