Posted in 2018-2019, Non-Fiction, November 2018

Type of Love

By Gabriella Snyder

She offered the type of love that looked like tired eyes at 4:00 in the morning. I gave her my time, my sleep. Her mornings began when my afternoons started. When rolling out of bed late for school, she woke up to brewed coffee and eggs on the stove. The type of love that rimmed my eyes with dark circles, her eyes bright with energy. Lights in my room remained on when facetiming her, making sure to comeback my desperation for shut eye. Her lights were always off, preparing to drift to sleep. At times I wondered if I should allow my lights to turn off and for my eyes to flutter close. Maybe I should have allowed my muscles to loosen the tight knots of deep care, just as she did. I let my sleep deprived thoughts silence when remembering her. The type of love where I convinced myself that she cared for me, even loved me.

She offered the type of love that sounded like whimpers for attention. I never questioned why I put all of my focus on her. I told myself that she was my soulmate. The type of love where my eyes were fixed on making her wishes my command. I made sure every beg for attention that quivered from her lips were met with my comforting hands. The type of love that made sure her blue thoughts transformed into ones of yellow hope. Her praise was quiet, nearly a whisper. She made sure there was no other sound that could be heard past her whine of seeking security and admiration. I could never match her whimpers of attention. She was the center of my world. The type of love that adjusted my hearing to the pitch of her cries.

She offered the type of love that tasted like honey in my throat. The type of love that was sweet and thick. She didn’t know what love was. She thought it only consisted of the sugary kind of taste. The type of love that only existed in romantic movies, with boxes of chocolates and bouquets of flower. The taste of love that would blanket across your tastebuds but only last a second. She has flooded my taste of love with honey.

She offered the type of love that felt like pins and needles tracing my body, cutting into my hope for us. I loved her past the pain she caused. I told her I would never leave her, never let the pins and needles poke too deep in my skin. I held onto the past experiences I had with her: This is when our love was like flowers blooming in my chest, was like love growing in my belly, vines lacing my throat. Her words of poison unrooted my flowers, leaving stems and thorns behind.

It’s quiet now. The type of love that I’ve been wishing for.   

Author:

Post Script is a magazine written, edited, and produced by the Creative Writing Department of Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. Through our articles, stories, poems, and the occasional lifehack, we have shared some of the things most important to us. There is a remarkable diversity of talent to be found in our students and their work, and we are unified by a common respect for that diversity. The editors and writers that make Post Script possible don’t have an end goal in sight, but instead a vision of a magazine that allows us to explore, learn, and grow. We have ventured into a new medium for self-expression and self-reflection, and hope that our art and the effort that went into this project will encourage, engage, and enlighten readers of all backgrounds.

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