The piano keys are teeth and you are trying to create something beautiful from the mess that your hands bled onto the black and the white, but his voice is the only sound your ears can hear. He is telling you to stop making spirits out of dead bodies, because you’ve never been good at keeping beautiful things long enough for them to love you back.
Battlefields are never beautiful; especially when they take place between your own bones and you can feel your knuckles crack with each bullet shell dropping, trying to keep yourself together while he blows gunpowder into your wounds and watches you ignite.
He says he loves to watch fireworks, and you think you are the entire sky because he looks into your eyes like he is watching a new year’s eve horizon, and you think he is seeing red and green and yellow and light and light and light, but it’s been six months and he only looks down now.
And maybe he turned you into the universe, only to settle for the earth instead.
We’re the tired kind of broken now.
the six-hour nap kind of broken.
the three missed calls, long-haired, razor-smiled, dirty boy trying to get into your pants (and you let him) kind of broken. The girl with honey cheeks and bee-stinger tongue pressing against your lips (and you let her) kind of broken.
The eat too much or don’t bother eating at all, pale-faced, bloody-lipped, skeletal body kind of broken.