love poems.

sixty.

my definition of love from childhood is the sound of shouting from every side of the house, the sound of doors being slammed shut, and the sound of crying in the night when you believe no one is listening. at times i can taste the words mommy and daddy are divorcing on the tip of my tongue, just as fresh as they were when i spoke them to my first grade teacher all those years ago. my definition of love is "your mother is crazy" and "your father is a mess." love, to me, has always been painful and hard and wrecking and messy. so how am i supposed to learn otherwise? how am i supposed to learn that love is supposed to be the abundance of kindness and warmth if all i've ever known is the bitter chill of divorce and ruin? they say that you learn the most in your youth, but what do you do when you've learned wrong?