There’s something vital about constants.

To have that solid foundation to grasp on to when you feel as if you’re going to fall.
To be able to fall onto something rather than plunge into the void.

But I feel as if I was built on an impulse, unplanned, more of an experiment.

I was thirteen when I made the first incision on my ****** heart, allowing its contents to pour out in a heavenly wave of confusion and innocence.
Which is fine.

I was fourteen when I tried to stitch the pericardium back together with the “I love you’s” that were never meant to be said, the heat of the activity, and the temporary “Stay Strong”s.
Which is also fine.

I was fifteen when I learned that the heart muscle can only regenerate in small, limited quantities, that it would never be quite the same in its entirety.
Which is, again, fine.

Now I am seventeen days from my sixteenth birthday, and I’m learning that time spent alone can not only let you find yourself, but can also lead you to parts of yourself you weren’t meant to discover quite yet.

But I am almost sixteen, and it’s too late. I cannot forget what I know.

Maybe seventeen will be kinder.

Love, Heartbreak, etc; the never-ending cycle.

I was about to outline the phases of the cycle of love, including all the casualties and all the bliss, but then I realized that would be way too long and monotonous. So bear with me as I try to summarize the cycle.

Except, you can't summarize love, that’s like trying to give someone the general idea of a song by humming it, but not actually singing the lyrics.

Here’s how it is. You never know what your happiest moment in a relationship is. You just simply will never know at that very moment, you will only know the peak of your happiness once it has passed. That is because we tend to assume that our happy levels will just continue to rise once you find “the one.” And unfortunately, it doesn't always work that way.

I don’t exactly know what love is. Maybe it’s the way the tiny scar on your lip made me laugh while we kissed. Or maybe it’s the way you sass me whenever I’m acting like a ****. Or, maybe the way you drive me absolutely insane, yet I still want to spend as much time as I can with you. Somehow all the love songs, all the poems, and all the blue skies reminded me of you. And, get this, all the rainy days, songs about getting over you, and blank walls also remind me of you.

It’s like you just can’t escape. But I’m starting to think that maybe love itself isn’t what hurts, it’s the way it’s thrown around, the way it’s abused that causes the real pain.

But in all reality, I still don’t know what love is. I’ve never really had that example couple to look up to. I’m completely unaware of what love looks like. Maybe that’s why I struggle to find it.