Winter Stones
I. Her first love
was a boy that chased her around the play ground the way the wind chases leaves
Often he kept her close to the ground, but sometimes
he would spin her into small tornados  Untill she was dizzy and giggling
And sometimes he swept her up- the way wind does
Together they flew
he showed her the skies,
taught her how to manipulate the clouds and count the constellations one by one

II. She saw Galaxies in his eyes
Expansive depths that offered worlds of possibilities
And she cried when he cut his hair
Because he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen
And she knew that he was perfect with all his flaws
Because he was the sun and she the moon
And flaws were only clouds that temporarily dimmed light

III. Everyone told her
The story of how “The sun died every night to let the moon breathe”
But they had forgotten that it is the sun that rises and falls
So therefore the moon can only breathe when the sun says so.
And they forgot to mention that small tornados turn into big ones
That leaves in storms are nothing but collateral damage
And without a tree to hold them down are left and lost
to the whim of the wind

IV. All too soon
She began to find the wind suffocating
Yet salt still poured from her eyes when she realized
That leaves have no power to stay the wind
And the moon and the sun simply can’t exist at the same time

V. Still,
She never stopped loving him

VI. Then the night came
That he thought that maybe he loved her back
and when he kissed her it was with lips made of fire
Which burned her skin as easily as paper
And left her with scars when he said
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
They tell you scars are memories but really,
They just hurt

VII. They told her
That she was too young to know love
that what she had felt for him was only a shadow of love
So, logically, she could not possibly be heartbroken
But if this was only a shadow of love
Then she decided that she would go her whole life without falling
Yet her imagination still strayed
and she began to wonder if she was even capable of love
Because her pieces hadn’t quite fit back together right
And she knew
That she would never break the same way that she broke for him
Plus,
It was hard to break
When all he had left her with were bricks to build walls
And she did, tall and high

VIII. But the thing about walls
is that while they keep things out
they also keep them in
And so she was a trapped in a place without wind
But even if he had been there it wouldn't have mattered because,
She was no longer Autumn Leaves but
Winter Stones

I run to drown out fear
and to block out pain
no I do not run from them
I run for them

I run for heartbreaks
and nightmares
that cannot stop me
for I run

I run from love
and hate
because you cannot know one
without the other

You've been lurking
in my thoughts all week
(ever since that night
we spent in each other's arms)
which has been made worse by the knowledge
that you haven't given any thought to me.

I had given up
on loving you
except now
the imprint of your arm across my chest
and the smell of your breath in my hair
linger on,
each memory a tendril
attached to my body
dragging me deeper into
the waters of the past.

That night we spent
together
(as friends but bodies curled
against each other like lovers)
has been following me around,
a second shadow
goading me
a dull reminder that
what mattered so much to me
(that night together
your head against my back
your legs against mine)
(and all those other nights
flirtations conversations smiles whispered exchanges
promises)
meant so little to you.

I.
There will be a day, you say,
where the world stops and all that ever was
and all there ever will be would cease.

                                                                     Trust.

There will be a time, he says,
when I will no longer love like how
you built the moon for me, balancing
upon a staircase of wooden boxes.

                                                                    Trust.

You don’t care. You let him weave
with string, then with your soul,
your heart the ball of yarn at the end.

                                                                   Trust in him.

You are a lover. You are a fool.

II.
Light. Soft light and harsh light and lantern lights
and fairy lights and neon lights and flashlights.

Light, like that which comes on in his eyes
when you tell him you want Honey Stars, and
you two spend the night picking at those overhead.
He tells you that when you drop stars into the
Pacific, they become sweet, like honey.

All you wanted was cereal, but you are a fool
one that picks at stars that have long since died,
one that can’t tell a corpse from a sparkle.

You don’t get any stars in the end, except for the
ones in his eyes.

A fool.

III.
This is where you grew poppies,
expecting to harvest the seeds and
crush,
thinking that maybe,
just maybe,
the dust will help you sleep, like the
sand of the Golden man.
You teeter on the edge that separates
wanting and needing,
You walk on a slowly fraying tightrope.

Tight,
        like your heart.
Rope,
          like how you rope
souls into believing you,
how you rope in friends
and demand their faith.

This is where you rearranged
his little soldier boys, where the
ceramic crashed against the wood
and refused to break.

Not like you, then.

This is where you kissed him,
over
       and
             over, because
air is useless without oxygen
and oxygen is useless to a pair of collapsed lungs.

IV.
You hate him. You hate his strength,
how he bangs the table and it snaps in two.

You hate his laughter, scratching against the walls
in tune with your sobbing.

You hate how you have to scan his eyes before you sit,
have to look before you make the metaphorical leap.

You hate how you let him force open your legs,
hate his pride at being in control, and his guilt
for the purple and blue spots on your skin,
like garish children’s make-up,
a clown at the party of life.

You hate how he holds onto your sides till
you hear the crack, and how you tell the doctors
you fell, because you did.

You are still falling, every time he looks at you,
Honey Stars in his eyes.

You don’t hate him. You love him,
that’s why you come back to be destroyed.

You hate yourself.
That’s also why you come back, to be destroyed.

You can’t repair hurt like that
but you try anyway, because the best part of building
is when you knock down.

V.
It is painful, but pain is a symptom of life.
You let him hurt you, let him crush your
bones and self-esteem, because no one
taught you how to love and if it means giving,

then you must be doing it right.

VI.
Wake, from the best sleep you’ve had,
wake from a nightmare, to a nightmare.
He is gazing out of the window, with
suspenders to hold up his pants
and his courage.
Your canines sink into your thumb, as
he turns to you and he says, “Hera,
I love you, but–”

The memory ends there.

Hera was the wife of Zeus,
goddess of women and marriage.
Your parents made a mistake,
more than once.

VII.
You are alone.
Quiet was never your thing, silence the most
deafening noise in the world.

This is your hand, a hand that once
rested against his neck, a hand that
felt his blood pulsing in his veins.

This is your hand and it is green
not from gardening but with envy.

These are your shoulders, shoulders that once
carried backpacks stuffed with Honey Stars
and sour things like love.

These are your shoulders, and even Atlas
cannot carry the weight on them.

This is your heart, and it is red.
This is your soul, and it is aluminium,
his words like sandpaper, polishing
until your soul tears and can be collected,
filtered and cross-examined under a microscope.
It will be reactive with the acid of his absence,
but only for a while.

This is your neck, and the rope feels rough
compared to your memories of his hands.

Oh, the people I've lost by being sincere.
So many, and I'm afraid you'll all march through my head
Every night till the day I die,
Always leaving,
Never giving a reason.
I am a reason.
This skin, these bones, a reason. I was born
A reason
To leave
And so the people I trust give none-
They need none.
Why?
Why runs through my veins with the blood.
Every look I give
Is why
Every word I speak
Is why
And why
Explain?
Why consider
When you can just
Quit?
I am the reason
And I carry that,
And I carry every time you said I wasn't.
(Until
You showed
I
Was.)