your love, your love, your love is my drug


There have been three boys.

Three boys that unknowingly unzipped something within me, along with my dress.


I was six years old when I first felt the kind of love that makes breathing impossible, purple a skin tone, and dreams include lots of sex and babies. Except I was six. So I probably dreamed less about things that involved possible cootie contamination and more about him rescuing me on the back of a unicorn and proposing to me with smelly erasers and kit-kats.

Adults can spew self-righteous truisms about not really knowing what love is all they want.

They’re fucking liars.

I was 6. And I was in love.


I was eighteen when I met a boy that made me disregard all social mores, flee my current beau, start quoting Shakespeare and catalyzed my transformation into some sort of flower-child pin-up hybrid. He also had me quite convinced that making out in the back room at work was an entirely constructive and acceptable way to spend your shift (he was right).


I’m 23. And I’m wickedly lucky to still be with a boy that makes me feel so good in an I want nothing more than to be bad kind of way.

And the other?

Well the other I am quite sure I can little hope to construct coherent sentences about beyond saying I fully subscribe to the notion that only unfulfilled love can be romantic.

The reason for these numbers? These summaries of my untamed heart?

I want to bottle this shit.

Because, honestly?

I can jump off a bridge with a rubber band attached. I can dye my hair purple. Or blue. Or pink. I can sky dive, sketch permanent and painful musings onto my skin, or amass an army of piercings. I can travel. and dance. and scream. I can drink from fountains in Rome and swim in seas in Malibu, eat ice cream in triple digit heat and fly down sno-cone like mountains. Jet-ski. Parasail. Mountain climb. Motorcycle. I can do anything I fucking want to.

But I can never replicate what those (3) boys made me feel.

But then again, I’ve never tried LSD.

So there’s that.

update:  on further review this sounds far too much like I’m sex-and-the-city-style-telling you the number of people i’ve slept with. to which i say: really? do you really think i’d include the 6-year-old-love-of-my-life on that list? and if i did start at 6, why the hell would i only be at 3? so many questions. the right answer? three. three is the number of boys i’ve fallen head over Louboutins for. regardless of physical escapades.


~ by rubylocks on March 12, 2010.

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