First.

You were first.

You were the first person I couldn’t get enough of and the first person I felt like I couldn’t live without, imagine a future without. You were the first person I loved with my entire heart. The first person I wasn’t attracted to first based on looks and popularity, the first person I could look at when you sat across the table from me at the campus bar and not look but really, really see. You were the first person I actually saw a future with. The first person I felt like would give me the love I deserved.

You were the first person to share a bed with me, the first person I woke up next to and wrestled and cuddled and made out and confessed to like openly, without a passive-aggressive love note or a journal entry or a wish at 11:11 on a digital clock. You were the first person I was excited about. The first person whose apartment I left early on a snowy morning, almost skipping home because suddenly for the first time, there was real hope for the future.

You were the first person I hated, the first person I destroyed myself over, the first person I begged to be removed from my life, my memory, my existence, but my prayers and pleading were never answered until I answered them for myself. You’re the first person I cried over, because you removed me on Facebook. You were the first person who made me concerned about my drinking habits. You were the first person who made me question my sanity, health and well-being. You were the first person that made me take a steak knife from the kitchen and contemplate running it down my skin somewhere, which I never told anyone, not even my “best friends”, who were the first people who pretended they would have cared if they knew that.

You were the first person to treat me like I was an empty, rotten hollow shell of my own self. You were the first person who made me truly hate myself and feel like I was less than nothing. You were the first person who consistently made me wonder how I would ever be happy ever again. You were the first person whose opinion mattered to me so when you made jokes about my writing I laughed with you but I was embarrassed and shamed and wanted to crawl into a dank cave and just lie there, wondering how all these firsts, the good ones, became firsts I wanted to be extracted from my body, bigger and more foreign than I was used to in ages, because I medicated firsts with booze but also comfort food.

You were the first.

And you’ll be the last.

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