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I am still learning about love. I learn by asking others, by feeling, and by reliving memories that I’ve labeled love. Somehow, though I hate the novels, I feel like my heart would be placed in the romance section of a book store. Those that pass would pick me up based on my cover. I fear I would go right to paperback. I don’t have the recognition to be properly bound in a hard cover.

I say this because I fall easily. If there were enough time I would tell you the story of the woman in the bar I met over a thousand miles from home. I would tell you how she caught my eye and my heart in the same breath. The truth, of course, is that what we had wasn’t love. It doesn’t matter how soft her kisses or how much passion beat through my body when we made love. Because it wasn’t love. We made orgasms. The love part seems to allude me.

I could tell you about the girl I met years ago. I could talk to you for hours about how she will always have my heart. She will remain the love I could never have. It still puzzles me the things that remind me of her. The songs, smells, and when the wind blows the right way across my cheek all bring her back to me. But for her and I time and space took it’s toll. Our hearts never managed to leap off the cliff of love at the same moment. So now it’s just a series of memories. I fear I will compare them to every woman I will ever meet.

Then there was the woman who fell for my careless ways. She wanted every thing and not a damn thing all at the same time. Mostly she wanted me to whisper every intricate detail of what I wanted to do to her in bed before we fucked. The lack of spontaneity weighed on me. In the beginning she didn’t care when I didn’t call back. In the end I had to change my phone number.

All of these women have lead me to different definitions of love. Sentences full of nouns and verbs and words that I care not to learn. In a life full of what I hoped was love I fear I have never felt it’s true meaning. Walls built and barbed wire placed in all the right places. I’m the bad girl. The one you all want to tame. The one you all want to conquer, and then hate me when I’m gone. I’m the girl that can write about how I don’t know what love is better than I will ever be able to express it to you.

You can’t save me, I have a hard enough time remembering to breath.