I never knew love for itself until the day she left

I guess I realized I was in love on January 7th of that year. She wanted to get back with her ex-girlfriend, and my whole body was crushed with the force of those words.
There was an indescribable emptiness in that pause between her hasty apology and the point at which I could even understand what she had said ... the kind where memories and still-frames and the sounds of breaking glass fly through your mind, consuming every inch of sanity before letting you fall through the depths of the clouds.

It is so strange that an entire 16 years of perfect, calm recognition of reality can fall away in an instant, leaving you forever.

I stumbled around my life in a daze, unable to escape my thoughts or to sleep or function; I broke the doors off my closets and punched holes in the cheap plaster walls.

I frightened my parents. I made my friends angry. I disappointed everyone. But there was just nothing left.

I had given this girl my life, my soul, my love. I was alone in a crowded room, afraid and numb and groping in the dark for the switch that could give me back myself.

I sliced up my skin to feel something, anything; I set fire to my possessions and pressed my wrists against the metal of the oven at 400°.

I even came out in tears to my mother, finally told her I was gay.

Time passes, and we change, but I still dream in black and white. And I'm still brought to tears just running these paragraphs through spellcheck.

Maybe I knew I was in love the first time we met. The first time I watched her get into her car. Or the first time she wrote a poem about the way I walked.

Maybe it was the first time she slid her hand between my legs and I screamed inside, frozen with a mixture of fear and weightlessness.

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