The first time I thought I fell in love,
I was sixteen and naive.
You held my hand, and butterflies fluttered.
You looked at me like I was the night sky.
You called me beautiful, and I shined like the sun.
Every time you kissed me, sparks flew.
The day you left me was the first day of a long winter.
But when I was nineteen and grown,
I discovered a hand that never let mine go, and eagles soared.
I found eyes that forever gazed at me like I was the radiance of The Milky Way.
I felt beautiful all the time, without having to be called it, and beamed brighter than all of the Northern Lights.
I was kissed every second of the day, but each time was no less than The Fourth of July.
And from then on, for the rest of my life, I knew that winter would never come again.
Because I realized that I had never been in love at sixteen at all.
The first time I really fell in love,
And I mean truly, madly, deeply, unconditionally in love,
“I’m afraid I’ll never finish college. I’m afraid I’ll finish college with student loans I can never pay back. I’m afraid I’ll get a degree and won’t be able to find a job in that field. I’m afraid I’ll get a degree, get the job I dreamed of, and hate it.”—A Mental Illness Happy Hour listener whose list of fears matches mine four for four. Glad I’m not the only one. (via fawun)