They should have told you that as beautifully dressed in petals love is, so is her wrath pleasantly drenched in thorns, guns and knives,
that her peace matches her turmoil
that the making up equals the breaking down, the delirium, the betrayal …
They should have warned you that love will ruin you, weave you either into a poem or a curse.
that it will break you so hard that we will name our children after our heartbreaks, after all the men who have ever left us, be it our fathers or the lovers whose names will only ever be known by these soiled sheets, lipstick stained wines glasses and enamel ashtrays,
that these names are all our daughters will remember of our lovers so much that they will never dare ask us of our first loves, of our first heartbreaks, of the other woman, without the need to break the mirror. They will remember our sufferings, our mistakes every time they call out their own names.
They should have warned you that even long after they have left you; long after they are gone you will still melt them into songs,
That you will learn to master the art of deforming lost lovers into eternal ghosts
confine them in these poems, into these sonnets that are clothed in nothing but their flesh, your tears and all that mattered in the world, because something must attest to their existence and memories will be all that is left of them, of you, of her.
All these poems are the reflection of the clutter she has made of you, of your wretched heart and all the wrong decisions you have ever taken because you thought you could turn her into a woman who stays… but you cannot teach an old dog new tricks, mother should have told you this.
She should have told you that love will ruin you, past recognition and return the next morning with a bag full of apologies, justifications and how again you somehow are to blame because clean apologies are nothing she aspires to,
She should have told you the truth, told you that love is not just 11 cows, long white dresses, cute little girls tossing white rose petals along the aisle, blood stains on crispy white sheets on the first night, that love is not just the tossing of bouquets in the air.
She should have warned you that at times love will destroy you; that she will mesh you either into a poem or into a swearword, sometimes both.