We fill the house with pretty things. Anything to block out the crying. The little deaths. In the living room, everything white, or translucent. Calla lilies and glass figurines, mason jars filled with fairy lights and tiny ghosts. A deer in a dress. In the bedroom, everything the color of blood. We line our shoes in perfect rows. There is pain beneath the pretty. I'm in love with ballerinas, that terrible innocence that could turn wicked in a heartbeat. Despite the warmth of blankets, our feet are always cold. Everything so sad, yet so orderly. Something always missing. Yet so lovely on the surface. The men mowing the lawns making my eyes well with tears. Despite everything, there is silence. The hanging shelves home to wine bottles and tiny bluebirds. An apocalypse of lace and blue satin. The curve of the armchair reminding me of your back. Something beautiful yet dangerous. How we tried to be beautiful, only to end up dying from the inside.
