The summer I learnt how it hurts to have yourself taken apart, piece by piece, happened to coincide with the summer I met you. Before all that I used to carry flowers to your house every day, watch you open your door
and then slam it shut again; imagining that, one day, you’d see how beautiful the flowers really were.
You never did.
But I never stopped.
There’s a certain finesse to love, one I never understood. You have to be gentle with it, let it grow. But I was always tearing it up before it could grow more than two leaves, too desperate to risk it dying. I couldn’t let it die. There used to be a tree outside our old house that’d never grow because it rained too much and it was one of those imported plants that needed sunlight. And the neighbours used to say How fucking stupid, all this rain and the tree still won’t grow. Imagine getting so much of something that you don’t feel anything at all.
November I learnt sometimes you’re the only one who can fix you. And that sometimes you can love too much. Sometimes you try so hard to be something you’re not under the impression that you’re trying not to be anybody at all. December I stitched myself up. I didn’t write. January I wrote too much. February they told me about the pomegranate, and I felt it inside me like, here’s a thing I can put a name to. Here’s a thing.
March taught me that there isn’t enough flowers in the world that could make you—-
In this house there is a door, and behind that door is the way out, past the (love) stricken tales and old fingernail scratches. I spent so long thinking of you as my emergency exit that I forgot I was supposed to be running in the other direction. Behind that door is the way out, and even further than that is the truth, the truth you only find at the ends of storybooks and on the edges of old juice cartons.
Come, tell (me) about the way the universe starts and the way it ends, curled up tight, like a child running from themselves. Tell me about happiness, because I’ve had enough sadness to last me a lifetime. Tell me about love, because I’ve never really seen it, not in myself, not in you. And maybe, when it doesn’t hurt so much, tell me about the way I loved you - desperate, useless, not at all, not at all.