A True Love Story

​We met when I was just a child; nine or ten, I believe. I met her through my brother, who had become close friends with her. It was in that moment that I became obsessed.  It was then that I fell in love with her.

The years went by. At first I thought that we were just friends. We would spend as much time together as we could, but our time was limited. But the more I saw her, the more I cared for her, the more I loved her. 

She was beautiful. Even her flaws were beautiful. Her skin was rough from experience, but smooth under my fingertips. Her hair was knotted and dirty at times, but could clean up nicely. Her language, which was usually diced up with profanity, could become eloquent and polite when needed. 
When I looked into her eyes, saw what others could not. I remember many times, I heard criticism from my father and other relatives. My mother didn’t mind her company; we all spoke together often. We talked of life, love, politics and society.    

“How can you stand her?” My Aunt once asked me, “She’s so rude and impolite.” 

I tried to defend our relationship, but no matter how I argued, she would not accept her. “I mean, have you heard the language she uses,” she spat. I had heard this argument before from my father many times before, and continue to hear it still.  

“Everybody uses that language. You hear it everywhere,” I tried to explain, but once again my arguments fell on deaf ears. Usually these debates would end without resolution. Normally I would walk away leaving it unsettled, waiting until the day when the subject was again revisited. 

Even though the criticisms had been staring me in the face, the thought of leaving her never entered my mind. I knew we were meant to be. 

She may have been my soul mate, but we did not spend all of our time together. There were many times when I would meet another woman, and fall in love all over again.

I spent time with each woman, gaining a new appreciation for her character and behavior, but no matter how much love these women and I shared, I always returned to my first love. The other women were sufficient when I needed a taste of something new.

When I spent time with her I was never happier. I would sit in a chair listening to her every word as she read poetry from many thinkers. I was obsessed; I listened to her vivid words over and over again, making her repeat everything. Her every word and her every story put a colorful image in my head, an image of a world that I have not experienced; a world in which I could still relate. A world of outcasts and rejects to society, who are forced to live a life they are not proud of. A life they hope to change. I heard the words she spoke and the poets whose work she read and whose lives she would wrote about. I loved every minute with her and every word I heard her utter. I had to have more of her. I would look into her eyes as I listened to her words, seeing the passion that she shared with me. 

As time went by, I started to write my own poems, hoping to one day write as her great poets had
written. I shared my written words with my love, hoping she would like them. 

Time went by; I continued to perfect my skill. I hoped to one day take my art to its pinnacle. She and I spent hours together refining my craft. She taught me everything she knew and I was an eager student. Everything that I wrote I read to her, in attempts of gaining her approval and respect. 

I introduced her to my friends, who quickly understood why I loved her. They grew fond of her as well, but the love between them never sparked like it did with her and me.

Now, years later, she and I are still very much in love. I spend the majority of my days with her, as she tells me the stories I’ve loved so much. I can express myself through her. We have both changed over the years, but have never lost our unique connection. Her name is Hip Hop. And she’s the love of my life.