My mother told us to never fall in love with a poet on a motorcycle.
Sharon found one in Florida.
Tommy had tattoos on his arms and neck.
Why do you have so many, I asked.
Their just scars. Scars painted in black ink.
He'd pour ******* in his OJ as he watched Spongebob with my nephew.
The marks in his arms were always fresh but he never did it in front of John.
They found him on the beach.
We told the kid he just got on his bike and rode away.
How could you tell him they robbed his daddy and slit his throat?
One last scar.
My mother told us to never fall in love with a poet on a motorcycle.
I met mine in college.
We shared my bed and ****** til it got cool outside.
Chai lattes and bonfires.
He would say things that broke me and I would cry when he wasn't looking.
We found our way out together.
By April he was gone.
James was born two months later.
Mother never had a poet to be broken by.
Our father sold insurance.
I think about it now, maybe she wanted us to fall.
A life of broken hearts couldn't be worse than a life without scars.
Now James is older and talking like his father.
I brace myself every time his father looks at me through his grey eyes.
Was this what she meant?