I knew the idea of a broken love

It was when my mother drowned herself with vodka to burn the taste of my father's lips. Between the pages of her journals, I'd become curious of the memories she made within her books, the comfort of his skin became his refuge. Within the stom they created flowers grew from her lungs and bloomed within her mouth.

"I can't fucking stand you, Anna." His words were venomous and it felt like I had been hit with his fist, bruised with words that will never fade. Windows were opened and beneath my parents resided, often they spent their Friday nights dancing with soft music, this time the sounds of plates shattering replaced the softness of the piano.

Words painted pretty across in her handwriting, as if it had been a language of her own.

"A wild sea of love remained within the walls of my beating heart now it becomes hollow; echoes of my own voice, though your name shows across the ink behind the attempt at scratches. Letters haunt and I am left with what was once you. My mouth is full of lies, when I said I loved you, I never have. I don't know, maybe I was lonely and only enjoyed the comfort you offered with your body. It's become a habit of mine feeling the liquor burn my throat and stare at empty hands. Remembering when your fingers laced perfectly into my own. I haven't eaten anything in days, but I've listened to the playlist you've made for days whenever our words fail to cross and drip from our tongues. Language of twenty-six letters perfectly strung, words you left across my chest in the night our bodies touched for the first time. Your lies drip like honey from the mouth of an old lover, I used to write about you when you broke my heart with your talented tongue and edges kept so sharp like blade unused, but fell in love when the blades of moved back within your hold. We've shared a summer sort of love, until the leaves tinted into yellow then when the autumn air touched our skin and only left a mark with small goosebumps it was then we knew what empty was. Was it my fault or yours? Promises made too early and your soul has left this Earth too soon, I hopelessly wonder what heaven sounds like now that they’ve taken your laughter. It becomes foolish of me to believe in a God whose sense of humor makes him a masochist. A city we’ve built only to demolish our buildings and walking through rubble."