I used to think that love meant

Sitting on dirty air mattresses and

Going to the bathroom while balancing on

Broken toilet seats,

Ignoring the messages he was receiving from other girls and

Dropping him off at parties with my mom’s car,

Secretly and with my own gas money.

 

In other words –

Love was sacrificing comfort for another’s satisfaction,

Quietly tuning out the words of wisdom

My female family members had passed on to me

Words which never seemed to resonate at the right frequency

When I needed them the most.

 

I would wonder why their lectures to me about love

Oftentimes sounded so cruel:

“Because they loved me” was grounds for my

punishment for sneaking out of the house and

the restrictions places on my social availability,

but “Because I loved him” was never a

viable excuse –

my healthy relationship was with someone who

could not ‘love me’ with the same passion.

 

Healthy to me was a salad with my dinner every night

And not weighing too much but never

Someone who reciprocates my zeal and affection or

someone who blanketed my booboos.

I had been spending time with the type to

Step in my wounds.

My doctor asked me If I had a healthy relationship

And I said “I think so.”

Because I did really believe it.

 

I wish back then I would have known that

At present,

I still wouldn’t know how love

Tastes, feels, looks like or sounds,

But a healthy love is not just greens or equality.

If I had known I should command my love partner

To respect me ,

I would have saved myself

So much time and energy.