‹ Prequel: In the Month of May
One-Hundred Days
Day Seventeen: Sport
You saw love as a game, a sport which you were the best at. It meant absolutely nothing to you besides the golden trophies of hearts crushed between your fingers and teeth. You only fell in love to collect these trophies, to hang them on your walls and place them ever so neatly on your shelves. You decorated every inch of your house with these hearts, broken and glued back together for the sake of presentation.
I remember walking in on you hanging the brightest heart right above your headboard. You were so calm about it, so nonchalant, as if you didn't break a human being in two with your unforgiving hands and teeth. You treated love as a sport with no consequence for winning or losing. You treated love as a game, a game made especially for you.
To you, lovers were put in front of you as a perfect goal is laid out for a soccer player. Or they were placed in your line of sight such as a softball on a tee, always in perfect range of your anger and rage. You were unforgiving, unassuming that others were as capable of feeling broken as you.
You never looked back at the trail of splinters the hearts you broke left behind you, only up at the fixed pieces settled in delicate frames above you. You refused to look back, to look down, only up and ahead. You didn't want to see the destruction you left, the tears and blood that soaked the soles of your shoes as you walked off the field.
You only ever wanted to revel in the cheer of the crowd screaming your name as a victor.
You treated love as a sport, one that were it in the Olympics, you'd take the gold.
I remember walking in on you hanging the brightest heart right above your headboard. You were so calm about it, so nonchalant, as if you didn't break a human being in two with your unforgiving hands and teeth. You treated love as a sport with no consequence for winning or losing. You treated love as a game, a game made especially for you.
To you, lovers were put in front of you as a perfect goal is laid out for a soccer player. Or they were placed in your line of sight such as a softball on a tee, always in perfect range of your anger and rage. You were unforgiving, unassuming that others were as capable of feeling broken as you.
You never looked back at the trail of splinters the hearts you broke left behind you, only up at the fixed pieces settled in delicate frames above you. You refused to look back, to look down, only up and ahead. You didn't want to see the destruction you left, the tears and blood that soaked the soles of your shoes as you walked off the field.
You only ever wanted to revel in the cheer of the crowd screaming your name as a victor.
You treated love as a sport, one that were it in the Olympics, you'd take the gold.