love,
not a word to be thrown around
from the trauma of the past.

love,
is love watching behind the crack of a door
the people you look up to
screaming and crying in each other's faces,
with bruises on their arms
and a crooked smile
mixed with a drop of tension in the air
the next morning?

love,
is it being brought to a white room
with a stranger and a chair and a few toys
asking you questions
7 year olds shouldn't have to answer?

love,
is it having limited time with a parent?

love,
is it watching helplessly in almost slow motion
your father smack your mother across the back
with your school bag as
your leg decides to cramp up
and your grandparents scream?

love,
is it that boy that smiled brightly at you
every week and came out to your house
in the middle of the night
but then snatched your heart away
in broad daylight then scattered it into the sky?

love,
is it the other boy who professed his love,
only to jump to another
as soon as the wind changed direction?

love,
is it the boy who you laugh with everyday
and share a million memories with
and then watch him as he
fades into the background?

or is love
the word that rhymes with the dove,
a symbol of peace?
peace,
peace with myself perhaps.