My parents fell out of love.
We fell asleep listening to screaming matches rather than lullabies.
And so the summer of 2008 became a season of bitter winds rather than sunny days.
And they divorced a life they came to know better than themselves.

At the age of twelve, I fell in love with bloody wrists and an empty space between my thighs.
I called this love.
I should have called it war.
So eventually I divorced my happiness.

When I turned thirteen, I thought I fell in love with a boy who had eyes the color of dust storms.
But the hugs kept getting shorter and “forever” turned into “whatever.”
I continued to divorce pieces of myself to fit more perfectly with his.
I called this love.
I should have called it insecurity.

And so the winter of 2014 I decided to fall in love with myself rather than some boy
(who couldn’t love me any better).
But late November I came across a hurricane with a name I used to cry for.
He spoke tragedies to me and I called it love.
I should have called it pity.
And somewhere between the “I’m so sorry’s” I divorced my sanity.

February came and I broke another heart.
But my ribcage grew stronger and the thorn bushes inside of me started to grow roses.

And right now I’m in love with the girl who waves to me in the mirror,
We drink tea in the mornings and on late nights we sing our own lullabies.
I call this love.
So eventually I divorced the girl who loved everyone but herself.