The three loves of my life.

I have often wondered about the loves in my life that have shaped me. Some I know where they are now, others, not so much. But whether they or I knew it at the time, my love for them has shaped me somehow.

First came the young love. The kind of love that taught you the beginning notes to the song. The baby steps. The little dip into the pond. The testing of the waters. That is usually how it goes. But for me. This young love launched me into the deep end of human emotion and relationship, and demanded I sink or swim. No life vest, no buoy to lead you back to shore. Just you and the open water. Kicking for your life to keep your head above water. This first love taught me about the games people play in love. The push-pull. The lie. It taught me the absence of choice, and it hurt me more than it loved me. It left more scars than I realised and will be the kind of love forever etched on my bones, always my burden to carry. But they have stopped aching for years now. Forgiveness, I have found, is a soothing balm over old wounds. It was the kind of love that taught me laughter at skinned knees. The kind that taught me how to straighten my spine and declare war. It was the kind that forced the steel in my skin to turn into protective armour. The kind of love that coloured my life for years. Wove anger into my speech and cut knives into my tongue. Most first loves are sweet, but mine turned me into metal. Unyielding. Unforgiving. Unending.

Then came my second love. Who taught me about desire. Who forced the steel covering my bones to take a different shape. It demanded something new from me that I never thought I had. It asked that I meet it under moonlight. Learn to be unafraid and unashamed of what desire does to the body. Learn to harness it. It said, embrace the darkness, like the old friend she is. This love met me in the rage of my mind and body and moulded it. Quietly turned it into a weapon of emotion. It taught me how to use that complexity. Jealousy. Seduction. Touch. To learn to play the game before it plays you. It taught me about the power you hold, how the whisper of words can change an outcome. It taught me presence. It taught me to demand things. To ask for what was deserved, and it taught me to walk away when it was not given.

And so I welcomed my third love. Who taught me about what it means when the world falls away at a look. It taught me about blue eyes and pale skin. About the conversations in the night. It met me when my rage had softened. When the steel turned to water. It taught me about laughter and conversations. That not everything had to be a fight. It showed me in its gentleness that I was not ready for it, and neither were they. It showed me the grief that comes when someone walks away. But the joy that follows when you watch them do what they have always wanted to do. This love dulled the embers in my veins. Forced me to grow up. Made me take a look at what love had done. It taught me about intimacy. About stories told on old swing sets and laughter as you chased each other through the playground at night. It gave me flowers that I wove in my hair and pressed gentle kisses to cheeks before they said goodbye. It taught me that it was okay to sink into love.

And so these ghosts have stayed with me. Whispered in my ear as I wondered about love. They would crawl up my spine and rest heavy on the shoulders as I looked on at a new candidate for love. My first love demanded my spine stay strong and my tongue remain sharp. “Don’t let them get the better of you,” it would whisper. My second love would slither over “Make them want it. Wear the perfume. Touch the hand. You know what to do.” Then my third love would come, pat me gently on the arm and say, “Just talk to them. Get to know them. Don’t hurt them.”

For years, they have been the quiet sentinels guarding the gates of my heart without me even realising. Pushing love back. But the rage has dulled, and the games of love have turned tiring. And so I have decided that it is time for these guardians to rest now. To retire into memory. Sink back into the places of my body where they have lived and allow them to quietly go dormant. They are no longer needed. I have enough wisdom written on my skin that their whispers have now grown obsolete. They will remain with me, but it is time to let them go. Love stories turned into butterflies and sweet little scar tissue that ache no longer, even in the worst weather.