Love is not a body.

I thought that love was a message about my eyes.

Even though the world had brown eyes, I was told that mine were brand new.

A rare crumb of dirt that lined the prettiest flowerbeds.

I was given promises of happiness, with words as sedatives to will away my mental illnesses.

If they are nice to me, then they care if I fall.

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I thought that love was about my lips.

When they were painted red, I showed white teeth to wolves who saw that I was open to their empty cavities.

I thought that, by being talked to sensually, their late night pictures would lead me out of loneliness.

Love was a message delivered 12 hours later, a phone call that was never picked up, and a warm feeling when my cheekbones would be complimented in passing.

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I thought that love was when they told me: te quiero.

I held my insides tight when I said no, and became confused every time I said “don’t go.”

When they still took from the rivers that kept my body going, I excused their need to drink as a way to survive.

I thought that love was when they needed me at 4 am.

I thought that love was when they wanted a body.

But it wasn’t.