When she left, she took other things with her.

She took the comfort that was sewn into my baby blanket that I still bother to sleep with because it smelled like great-grandma's sycamore tree and worn-out, dusty storybook pages and sparkler campfire smoke.
Her fumbling fingers messed with loose ends and she unraveled all the good memories and replaced the sweet stitches with sour ones that smelled of her late-night perfume and spilled wine from a box.

She took the happiness in the sunshine that warmed my aching limbs
and lit the eyes of the people I admired,
let me see past the dull reflection of our lipstick-smudged, cracked mirror and into the world.
Her pasty complexion turned to sunburnt skin and itchy red eyes, singed hair ends that ****** up all the happiness in the sunlight and left hot, dry, burning-too-bright light like cheap growth lamps that made the flowers die.

I could pretend it was all her fault,
stealing away my love,
but, I gave it to her
when I knew she wouldn't stay.