I thought I knew what love was
back when I was in school—
in tenth grade,
when I met love for the very first time.
Love was a popular transferred student,
the kind I felt smitten by
before I even knew what smitten meant.
Love was talking in the hallway during lunch breaks,
trying to act cool
while my heart beat like it was late for class.
Love stood six feet tall.
Love was sending the last message of the day,
waking up to a "GM" text,
feeling like the world was gently handing me a sunrise.
Love was walking in the park in the evening,
a whole mile of space between us,
worrying that if my dad saw us,
it'd be the end of me.
Love was innocent.
Turns out,
that wasn't love.
Shocker.