My initial reaction to love,
once upon a time,
was me being tired of the word.
My mouth would become this sour lime.
and I would slur so I could be heard.
A boy telling he liked me,
would always end with me laughing,
with the pure confession why he surprised me,
and why on earth, he didn’t despised me.
‘Yeah good one’
was always what I said,
but the boy didn’t find it good fun,
but looked at me like I had a handgun.
I look back,
and roll my eyes.
and want to hijack the past
where I didn’t like my size,
where I didn’t like my freckles
where I would refuse to wear my specs.
Oh how I wish I loved myself a little more.