Spanish

“Te amo,” he said, and

that was the first time I had

heard Spanish used like that. There

was no “I love, you love, he/she/it

loves, we love, they love,” just

his lips and his breath and his voice in

my ear and his body against mine

and my slight moans

and his hands and my

back and I wish I had the

courage back then to tell him that

he was destroying me.

I wish I had the courage to

tell him that we can’t

build a relationship on a

language that I don’t even

understand, and in my world love

can’t

expand to cover the 1,500 miles between us, but

when he whispered “te

quiero” and “tu eres

hermosa” I wasn’t in

my world, I was in his. And

I wish I had the courage to

pull away from his

words, but there was something

so fucking beautiful

about the way he said

my name, the way he had

been with me as I was growing

up, he had seen me cry

over love before I knew

my heart could produce it, he

had seen me moan before

I knew that I was capable

of letting go of all my

thoughts like that, and

he has my innocence, and

that’s a lot more emotional

than someone taking my

virginity. And I wish

I had the courage to tell him

that he’s fucking with my

mind and that I can’t take this

because my heart is NOT a

rubber band and it can NOT take

how much he’s stretching it. But

I can’t let go because then he’d

have my heart and I don’t think

he’d ever give it back, and I

don’t want him to let go because if he

does, it’ll slam into my chest and

kill me. He was the

first person I ever truly loved. And

neither of us can really let

go of what we had, what we have, and

I know that because he won’t give me

my heart back, and I won’t release

my heart to him, he’ll be the last person

I ever truly love.