The first time I gave up on love I was eleven years old. Young and clinging to naivety like the baby blanket I still slept with, I saw the sharp edges of my father’s anger tear through the shroud of assumed happily ever after. Every punch he threw and every insult he hurled was an assault on my forever.
I believed marriage was a lie and love was an illusion before I knew the name of the first boy I’d kiss.
The second time I gave up on love I was eighteen years old. It was the end of summer and the end of adolescence and the end of carefully calculated certainty. He was perfect in that his parents were happily married and he had a wonderful childhood and he took for granted everything I desperately wanted. College loomed the way ominous clouds announce a coming storm: welcomed after a…
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