We take the words we want to hear and turn them into lullabies. We mix them up like alphabet soup until they spell “love.” We assemble your utterances into sonnets. We claim your words as they roll off your tongues. We take your small affections for permanence. But, we know in our fluttering hearts that you, in your dirty sneakers and old band t-shirts, will run like you’ve known how to since birth. We, in our awareness, take your disappearance for fear and convince ourselves we are the authors of our own love stories, as if fate has no hand, as if you will return. And perhaps, we are correct. We can choose to love ourselves, in our sadness, in our hysteria. We are whole. We are complete. We are poets and we can spin our self-loathing into love, like you never even existed, like you are merely a paper cut.
They take one-night stands for iced teas on the porch in old age. They look away as we look towards them. We know they were staring and we’ll speak our minds. We want them to feel our beauties and our flaws, like vased flowers that crashed to the floor, resulting in chaos and shards. Please, pick us up, but don’t stay. We will cut you. Your blood-soaked hands don’t deserve our injurious nature, but were we supposed to sit left alone in our misery? We didn’t ask you stay. Please, don’t. We are broken and we will run. We just wanted to be lifted off the ground. You didn’t have to turn our words into love songs. We don’t love you. We didn’t ask for yours. We want satiation. We want glue. We want to feel ourselves against you, but we warned you: Fragile! Touch with caution. We will never be the same and you are not glassblowers. You are only wordsmiths. Perform your witchcraft, but know, we’ve already been enchanted by those who pushed us from the table.