I would have to say that my second experience of love occurred when I was 13. Put in a precarious situation of predictably absent parents and of wanting to find a place to call my own in the social sense led me into the arms of a charismatic playboy with a pension for verbal and physical abuse. I curse the marks that he has put on my body and mind, drawing a path on both that is hard to deviate from. To skip ahead, slowly these well worn grooves are smoothing out, but to go back they run very, very deep. It is here again that I encountered this upperhand. He had what I wanted, and I had what he wanted, myself aware of the power of the female form. What I wanted was this thing called love. For me this love was visceral. It made me sick on more than one occasion and made me contemplate the whole lot with knife in hand. Nothing felt more like love than force, words of the "carefully chosen hurting kind." The strength of what was in my heart was matched only by bruises, blood, and involuntary curses that escaped my lips when contact was made. The more it hurt, the more sure I was that what we had was special. He didn't posture with me, this was real and private.
Side Note: I haven't significantly altered any of what I've written since I conducted this experiment with the exception of typos and glaring grammar issues, such as missing commas. And it's difficult not to with every entry I post, but every time I do it is a self-inflicted lesson in humility. Goodness, this is tough.