Like a Child

Because love is like a child, for better or for worse.

June was when we met, when the lovely birds were singing their own jolly song. Their perfect harmony was magic, and his perfect laugh was music.

June was of dancing under willow trees and laughing along with the geese, who just never seemed to falter. It was of butter cake and iced tea, chaste kisses and giggles that made firm knees weak. June was from first love to true love, from first kiss to too many to count.

July came around the corner and we were no longer fawns, we were the soaring doves that overtook the blue skies- we were the love birds.

July was of teasing smirks and crimson blushes; it was of chance and of trust. July was when the butterflies promised to burst straight out my stomach taking with them my heart. It was of yearning, of eagerness, of acceptance and of love.

From July to the July of the following year the days leaped and our hearts leaped and as the world seemed to with every second age, our loved seemed to with every second grow. That year was just a long ride on the high of young love; we skittered and scampered around like children who had just learned to dance, never letting go in fear that we would fall.

It was youthful passion; it was that feeling of missing him even when I was in his arms. It was a year of burning and breaking in order to strengthen and mold ourselves into the beings of each other. It was of “you’re mine” and of “I’m yours”; a year of “forever”.

Not soon after, barreling into our lives came August, bringing with it a rich sense of mystery. August was bright and fun, yet so gloomy and dull. It was when the heavens heaved and fat drops of tears fell from the skies- easing their way into my heart.

August was of lightning that lit the darkness and sparks that flew when our lips did touch. It was entrancing and new; my hazel eyes were mesmerized by his of gold and his scarlet lips were plastered against mine every time the wind howled. August was of temptation and lust. But it was also of darkness that trickled into each broken crevasse and angst that followed along like a lost child.

October was when the leaves fell and my heart fell, when the crows cawed at a scowling moon and the naked trees danced in the most taunting of ways. October was when I prayed that angst the lost child didn’t find us, when I cried that we weren’t ready, not for a child, never for a child like that.

October was sobs of fear that came not from the ghosts and ghouls, but from his gold eyes that flashed nothing but black. It was sleeping alone when the wind shook the world, and waking alone when the sun scorched and burned out little bits of my heart. October was of sober apprehensions and drunken tears.

And then there was November with December inciting from a few weeks ahead. November was my knees on the ground and my heart on my sleeve. It was of his bloody hands that shook from ripping out my heart, and of his faltering smirk that had never before looked so broken.

November was dry sobs that burned out all the fuel that had driven our love. It was when our ignition went up in flames; when our first love -my true love- became my first heartbreak. But it wasn’t heartbreak when my heart was in his hands, when my soul and my body and my whole being was all his and I was just a broken figure of nothing- gasping and pleading like a peasant to a king.

November was when I lashed and I bawled; when rage that I had never known lived inside of me burst and grew into a child full of hatred; burst and grew till it took over.

December came almost as fast as he left.

By February I lived as nothing but a shell. My hurt weighed a bit too much, and though my heart was numb and my soul was gone, my life was just a bit too heavy. I began to tip and as I flailed for help and cried for air I came to understand that there was no true escape.

February was piercing numbness and irregular breaths. It was when I realized that if you close your eyes real tight sometimes reality fades off into a dream, and sometimes for a second I can go on.

But then he’s there. Under my closed lids he appears, never a dream he’s just an inscribed nightmare.

February is of insomnia and delusion. February is of being driven mad.

March is when I march to the brink of insanity and take a step forward. It’s when I claw at skin that never really fit, and drink my tears in order to breathe the air of tomorrow.

March is a push and pull of emotions, of bipolar lashes and unnatural screams. It’s of broken glass and broken hopes, pulls of hair and nails, nails sliding down flushed cheeks and weak bones. It’s raw; agony pulling, groping, ruthless. It’s fear; pushing, pleading- like a child, just like a child.

March is of knowing that if the past were to repeat I would do nothing but the same. It’s an oath that I would once again leap heart before head because I’m worth nothing more than my life, and without him my life is worthless.

And then comes May with June peaking over the horizon. May is a month of desperation, hatred, pleading, and of dread. It’s when the sky is only black when I want it to be bright, and the rain is only plummeting because my eyes have none left.

May is when the world screams and the storm rages, when my trembling hands rake down photographs and I sob over spilt milk, because even I know he’s never coming back. May is yearning that time could turn back to the June of the past. It’s wishing that we could meet anew and that he could once again crawl into my heart and that I could once again crawl into his arms.

Life is only as easy as knowing that somewhere, miles and miles beyond your vision there’s a rainbow instead of rain. But May is the month when you know- when I know- that life is just a nightmare once your living it and nothing but a dream when it’s all gone.

And in May when my body is just flesh and bones and my heart is just an empty socket snuggled between barely functioning lungs, I wish so dearly to achieve that dream.

Because May is of nightmares with every gasped breath and pain with every tick of the clock; it’s of bare feet against cold tiles and of being naked to a world that wills that nothing less than chastity. May is when every surface above 10 feet seems like a shortcut; it’s when my head spins and adrenaline erupts. May is when -looking at a calendar that can’t hide the pain of the coming June- I will myself to take a leap and just let go.

It’s when I never see June coming.

I climb, and soar, and plummet- into an abyss, into a dream.