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X marks the spot. When I was thirteen I was in love. I believed that this was my great love. With all my being I had to be with him. I had to breathe his air. Taste his taste. Without him I truly believed that I would die. Now sixteen years later I'm still breathing. Not his air. Tasting, but not his taste. But, I still remember the longing. The way my heart yearned in that youthful way, and I have a small reminder. A small X on my left ankle, where he cut me. Quite literally with a razor blade. So he could taste my taste.

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