Someday, when I have a daughter,
I’ll tell her everything I learned about love.
I may not know what love is exactly,
But I can at least tell her how it feels.
I’ll tell her how my heart skipped a beat when I was 12,
For a boy whose IQ surpassed everyone in our city,
Whose charisma overflowed that girls our age eyed me with envy,
Whose Vic Sotto-inspired pick up lines I found very funny.
I’ll tell her how awkward it felt the first time I held his hand,
How embarrased I was the first time he hugged me tight.
I’ll tell her how confusing it was when my parents learned I liked someone,
How they told me to stop because whatever I was feeling surely wasn’t love,
How they told me to focus on my studies so I wouldn’t end up marrying young.
I’ll tell her how high school passed by with a string of flings,
How I couldn’t have a relationship like my peers because my parents kept an eye on me.
I’ll tell her how a boy in my university made me weak in the knees,
How I was finally free to like someone back, away from my parents’ scrutiny.
I’ll tell her how it broke my heart when he told me he was leaving,
That we had to break up because it would be hard for us to keep dating.
I’ll tell her how I met another boy who fixed my broken heart,
How I clung onto his promises during the lowest point of my life,
And how he turned out to be as toxic as the memories that dragged me down.
[ to be continued ]