He was my first love. He was the first to make my heart feel like everything it desired could come to fruition. Without a second thought, I took a bite of that mythical apple.
But soon it became rotted. It was not what I had imagined after all. There was pain and angst in that bite.
But it was a familiar pain that I came to yearn for in my life and so I continue to chew. The thought of letting go seemed fatal.
Instead, I endured this familiar pain no matter how hard it was to swallow.
I imagined what else was possible outside of this world that I had come to know, but anything beyond this taste was unknown, uncomfortable, unfamiliar. I was tempted by a snake.
I was lured by another to try a bite of something different, something new. I took a bite in the darkness of the night. There was a sense of liberation that came with this act.
Despite the guilt that brewed inside, the thought of leaving my first love seemed more tangible.
I hadn't realized how much I had depended on his fading love for sustenance; it was limiting and scarce. And so, I spit out that mouthful of my first love.
I rejected the scraps that he fed to me which the facade that there was a feast in store.
There was no end in sight, there were just more empty promises and pieces of convenient love and attention to keep me alive. I yearned for more.
I wanted my first love to feed me plentiful, to match my limit with his love. I had an unwavering appetite that was persistent in its veracity for him.
So I took the handout of another and was opened to a world of possibilities that existed. Still, my mouth waters when I imagine the possibilities of those scraps he lay.
How immense I imagined the end of that trail to be! Filled with everything I could ever want, but alas all my first love has to offer are those pitiful scraps.