Don't.

I came home smelling like rain and cigarette smoke and teenage love and my mother grabbed me and said, “Sweetheart, don’t you f*****g dare fall in love.”

And I smiled and stuck my hand in my pocket and touched the note you had hidden in my jeans when you touched me, where you said that you were 22 degrees Fahrenheit and I was the sun and I could melt you with my fingertips.

And I came home smelling like vanilla vodka and the lavender flowers you stuck behind my ear and my mother noticed the way your t-shirt hung off me and was on inside out, and the way you made me give it back two days later and she brushed the hair out of my eyes and said, “darling, don’t you f*****g dare fall in love”.

And I kissed her cheek and tried to put back together the necklace you bought me last night, the clasp was broken but I twirled the chain around my fingers, they’d still taste like your skin if I put them in my mouth. And I came home smelling like thunderstorms and fire and break up songs and cheap vodka that made me throw up and blood and rose thorns and smudged make up dripping down my face.

And my mother just looked at me.

And three weeks later I met a boy who wasn’t so cold and let me keep his t-shirts to sleep in when I missed him and never let anything break, especially my heart. And I came home smelling like everything safe and good and happy, telling myself that I better not fall in love.

I better not fall in love.

I better not f*****g dare fall in love.