This week,
you’ve got a heart like the hills
when a storm rolls in.
Even though last week,
it was different:
desert grass beneath
a white and unforgiving sun.
And you know it’s bad.
Because when pain like that
turns to an ache like howling wind,
that’s when you know it’s unpacked its bags
and settled in.
And you—you were so in love.
You thought she’d changed you.
You thought she’d found a heavy soul
strapped to your shoulders
and lifted it free—
that she’d unlaced you a heartbeat at a time
until you could breathe again.
You felt so light in her hands that she
had to be made of something stronger.
She had to.
And you poured all of yourself at her feet.
You thought you were supposed to.
The frightening thing about men
with nothing to believe in,
is that when they find something,
their hearts snap shut like bear traps.
They take no heed of broken bones.
And when she buckled
it’s not that you didn’t forgive her—
it’s that you didn’t even know.
Didn’t your mother ever tell you
not to love like that?
Didn’t she teach you not to take shelter
in other people’s bones?
Count to ten.
Lay your hands flat on the table.
You don’t have to live and love like this:
all hands—all teeth—no skin.
You are more than a forest fire
trapped in a pair of lungs.
And she deserved better than that
all consuming love;
she deserved better than loving
down the barrel of a smoking
loaded gun.