If attitude is contagious,
then why am I the only one
whose sick?

Love was a nine-year-old girl,
reciting Bible verses in Sunday school.
                          Love is patient, love is kind.
                          It does not envy. It does not boast.
                          It is not proud. It does not dishonor others.
                          It is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered.
                          It does not keep a record of wrongs.
And love was that she was foolish enough to believe it.

Love was writing your name in the sand,
sitting on the shore and waiting for the tide to steal it away.
It was counting every painful minute before a sunset
and guessing how you spent them.
The postcards I wished were valentines
from all of our favorite cities.

Love was the brand of your lips on the skin of my wrists,
searing away the parts of me I thought I needed.
Every breath we shared was oxygen,
but someone left matches in my lungs.
In case you’re curious,
I still haven’t managed to put out
the fires you started.

Love was the unspoken words
planted neatly in the punctuated pauses
of the conversations we never had.
Petals of wildflowers I pressed between
chapters of your most treasured books.
The times I sang myself to sleep
to the crinkling of pages,
dog-earing the ones that reminded me of you.
The love letters pinned to the post-it notes
I traded for silence.

Love was placing a candle in the window,
and a white flag on the doorstep.
Leaving the door unlocked
not to let you in,
but to watch you walk away.
Doubling up on waterproof mascara
on the nights I spent thinking of you.
Time is priceless,
tears are not.

It isn’t fair to say you miss the sun,
until you’ve danced a turn in the rain.
No storm warning could have predicted
the way your lightning touch would
paralyze every delicate nerve in my body.
Is there a word to describe the way
thunder rattles the sky?
There should be.
I would have said it then,
when you told me you loved her,
and all I could do was search
for an umbrella.

Love was the flour stains on the clothes I borrowed,
the scent of vanilla lining the holes
I tore in your old sweaters,
the loose ends I wrapped around my fingers.
I started carrying needle and thread
to patch up the places where love wore us through.
Nothing seemed to stop us from unraveling.

Love explained why you caught me
lingering in hallways,
mapping exits signs like landmarks
after you told me to keep my options open.
It was the moments when I sat on the stairs alone,
puzzling over the memories I couldn’t jigsaw piece together.

Loving you ought to have made me better,
but promises notwithstanding,
you made me worse.
Because love is bitter.
She is neither patient, nor kind.
Love is ruthless and desperate.
Love is selfish, jealous,
and will delight in how pushing you away
made her feel stronger.
Love is too indignant to admit
how much she misses the sound
of your voice.
And though she claims she is proud,
love can hardly bear to face her reflection
when you are not around to tell her
she is beautiful.

Love is never satisfied.
Love tries to pretend that she is.

Believe me when I say
I wasn’t always like this.
Because once,
there was a nine-year-old girl
who used to recite Bible verses during Sunday school
and imagine what love would be like.

You think no one has noticed
how you’ve been pick-pocketing pain
as you pass through crowds.
Usually misery loves company,
but you try to avoid dealing it out.
“No one deserves to be treated this way,”
is the kind of drug you need to be selfish about.
But you forget this applies to you, too.
Intentionally.
So you bundle the bits and pieces
in the nook in your chest,
where they pulse hungrily,
almost brutally.
But you don’t mind.

The only time you ever mind
is when you slice yourself open,
pouring out your darkest parts
right there,
on the bathroom floor.
Bottling up the hurt in mugs,
vases,
anything you can find, really,
for later use.
They’re overflowing now,
from what I’ve heard.
Barely able to contain all the weight
you wear upon your shoulders.

But some burdens shouldn’t
be carried,
or sold,
shelved away in unassuming little mason jars
in the back of your mind.
Some burdens have expiration dates.
Some things you need to let go of.

I have seen the way you collect scars
like passport stamps,
so you never have to speak.
They tell the stories of all you’ve been through,
cruel reminders that there’s
nowhere
on this earth you can run to
to escape this kind of heartache.
Instead, you document
every tear.
Every blow.
I bet I could even find some lashes
that aren’t even your own
printed on your skin
like a problem
you can never work out.

Life isn’t that simple, dear.
You can’t always solve for x.
There isn’t always an easy answer.
It’s best to leave some things undefined,
because some things you aren’t meant to fix.
And some things don’t want to be fixed,
no matter how hard you try.
You can stretch your arms
as wide as you’d like,
and you still wouldn’t be able to cradle
all the broken hearts in this world.
Believe me, I’ve tried.

I wish I had looked you in the eye
when I told you the truth.
When I said
Enough.
Put down the blade,
the only blood on your hands
is your own.
You’re staining your future rouge,
and those types of smears
don’t wash out with time.

But the lights were turned out,
and it’s hard to face the mirror
in the darkness.

If only you knew
how many words
I’ve masked behind
painted smiles.

How many times
I’ve let you walk away,
forced you to walk away.

Yes, I’ve heard
it’s better to build bridges,
but I think I’ve started to
revel in the beauty
of burning them down.

It terrifies me
that one day
I might watch you
go up in flames.

You don’t understand.
Darling, there are
ashes behind these eyes,
sparklers in this chest,
gun power in these veins.

But don’t go looking
for fireworks
where you won’t
find them.

My kind of love
isn’t what you’re
searching for.

My kind of love
will set you ablaze.
Devour you.
Leave you with nothing
but scorched palms
and a blackened heart.

My kind of love
is never satisfied.

And I will leave you intoxicated.
Suffocated.
Collateral damage.

So you’ve heard
I’m a tad volatile.
Good.
It’s about time you learned
to keep your distance
from fire hazards.

I dread being your target.

You taught me
to stand by my gun,
and yet,
you've always
called the shots
long before
they were fired.

Pull the trigger,
there she goes.
Sticks and stones
may break my bones,
but you never
mentioned bullets.

She loved him like a prayer -
quiet,
distant,
hopeful -
fingers interlaced with uncertainty,
when she should have
shouted his name
like a battle cry,
fighting to hold on.

I ought to have walked away then,
when he said he could fix me.
But I had never sampled sugar before,
and though his lies were bittersweet,
they made the truth easier to swallow.
Now, I am rotting
because of those honeyed words,
and his kisses have begun to taste
like cough syrup.