I. January made you a disaster like the roar that shook the trees and banged alongside the houses, amidst the storm. She whispered in your ear, “just because we found love does not mean love will stay” as you find yourself settled inside her. January has your mother’s eyes; blue and crystal without the intentions to match. Pretty is petty and you never forget.                   

II. February was hot to the touch; sizzlin’ like grease dying to leave a mark on your skin, like Icarus into the sun. She was your breath in the cold when you can no longer feel. Her lips traced with an invite to her bedroom. Her imprint lies in the sheets, waiting to feel in place momentarily again. February wears red lace lingerie under her clothes to club and is never the prey. You sweat over her because she tells you to call with no intentions to ever answer knowing you’ll wait, and wait, and wait. February can’t keep her promises.

III. March was everything pure, a virgin when we first met. She brought you home to her family the second time you met and lets her sister tell you stories about pointless s***. Her innocence intrigues you after you took her to church and watched her worship on her knees in those times she believes god isn’t looking. Not the usual type, she volunteered for charity, and not the usual kind girls did in high school, she sat in the back of class but still gets straight As. She asks to hold your hand through the halls, and knows to let go and fiddle with her chastity ring when you see those other girls. She doesn’t bite her tongue, no, the words never get that far. A week passes and you can’t even f***ing remember her name.

IV. April loved like a ghost. Would haunt you when you have nowhere to run. “I could love you but that’d be a waste of time.” April dirtied her hands with nothing but a pile of bones. “Where do you think you’re going?” she would say with a smirk. She isn’t not the type to bring home. Always hungry, kisses with her teeth.

V. May appeared more beautiful before you picked her. Confrontations rushed into hot, and steamy but only temporary solutions. Her mouth was the orange juice to your toothpaste kisses. Mama always said to love full heartedly or not at all but something about her kept your heart open for monthly visits. Messy sheets, you found out, really are short and sweet.

VI. June was a thrift shop. Like spare pennies. All this old furniture spelled your name. June would take you to a pool in the summer to skinny dip in. Her fingers dripped love too bold to stay bodily. Trails of Jack in tarnished coat holes, twirling in the depth of old records and lost dreams in last generations. She draws her hand, a one of a kind of course. You check your deck but her hand is moving down your thigh and suddenly the kings and queens held no value. Her heart is dusty so your chamber is in the attic. Tongues only speak the same language when they intertwine but you forgot when her smile tried to join the small talk.

VII. July won’t keep your hands out of her mouth. You get her drunk to open her up. She disappeared late at night to leave you to wake up alone but she left a glass of water and some aspirin on her way out. That’s all you could ask for in a generation like this. July always lied with a new face every time. She can’t remember the last color her hair. She told you to tattoo her name on your wrist and you say you’ll show her next week. July was reeling, only loved with a pile of bones.

VIII. August indulged in spoiled reads. She was a poem without a happy ending because those are the best kind. You laid under the cotton candy clouds and woke up more tired than before. Her type of beauty was exhausting; she avoided mirrors because your eyes were more than enough. Under her bed in an old shoe box is her deepest desires like kissing your bruised knuckles, and filling the space between your ribs. In a dictionary of hurt, you could only trace her hands until they settled inside themselves. August was a rose, but roses still have thorns.

IX. September always said, “Baby come home” with her hands tangled in your hair. She was a house that you have to take your shoes off at the front door, endure side conversations with her mother.
                    Sat with her legs crossed and her chin propped high.
                    Called you every night to tell you horror stories about LA before she moved.
             Her voice kept you up with comfort.
             Said she loves you during her first prom.
             September was impressionable, she learned from this more than you.

X. October was lazy, hid in your sweaters like bed sheets and won’t wash the dishes. October healed your wounds left from February and kept you in bed, wasting sunny days. Always wanted to nap till the sun set and trace the stars with your mind. You felt safe even though you shouldn’t have. She knew you wouldn’t leave, her kisses were bitter and you clung to the bottle till you couldn’t remember and that’s when she found her escape; quick and easy like a ripped band aid in a shower.

XI. November has a curfew but never listened. She wanted flowers on every table and for tomorrow to be a gentler crime scene. There’s a knot in your throat in the shape of her name. I don’t know how to speak her language but the way her eyes gaze separated a heart from a soul. She’s rebellious, like a biker jacket and a Harley, and she enjoyed when her mother no longer spoke to her. You tell November she’s too careless. No one told her you could die from bliss and she never saw it coming.

December escaped in her greatest of loves. She can sing to you with waves of goodbye like she doesn’t want to. December was stubborn, wouldn’t let you walk her home so your journey always started at the bus stop. “I could love you but my past still has me in its grasps, so it’d be a waste” she whispered. She knows it isn’t best to be the first to dive in, with a self confidence to shatter within her own hands. Her father’s black leather jacket looked mistaken on her quivering bones. “I blame myself” she said, “is it because you know my name?” You only remembered her when you saw the tree with your initials carved into, and that’s when it hurts the worst.