A Calendar of a Broken Heart

January made you a fucking 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.
	                   
	

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. 
	

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 shit. 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 fucking remember her name. 
	

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. 
	

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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. 
	

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.     
	                                                                    
	                                                        A.K.A