Momma used to tell me that love was forever,
that promises were meant to last,
that the sky would never hurt me,
and that I’d always be safe.
Momma lied.

Love doesn’t last forever
when it barely starts to bloom.
When the flowers are stomped down before the chance to see the sun.
Love does not last
when the back of the hand is the only thing to ever caress a soft face.
And when a broken glass bottle is the only fine China
a family comes to know.
Love doesn’t last
when the children are raised on a mantra of bad luck,
and the parents are unsure which door leads where.

Promises aren’t always kept,
they have been forever made, but yet they have a way
of breaking in the middle, snapping in half,
before getting stronger.
Being forgotten, before being loved.
Promises aren’t kept 
when they’re made as little kids,
dancing in the rain, running down the streets.
Promises aren’t kept when
they’re made beneath bed covers in hushed whispers,
uttered by rose cheeks and scarlet stained sheets.
Promises aren’t even kept
when the receivers have spent nine glorious months
exploring every possibility of loving too much.

The sky won’t hesitate to hurt you
when your world comes crashing down.
Don’t expect to take shelter beneath it’s shining stars.
Don’t expect the sky to protect you from bad people from bad places.
The sky won’t protect you
when you’re running from bad dreams, from reoccurring thoughts
that have plagued your mind from the moment it happened.
The moment their hands trapped you against a stiff bed,
that you would otherwise have found soft.
The sky won’t protect you
when your arm is a borrowed ashtray,
bearing the marks you try so hard to conceal as you run from every cigar you’ve seen,
praying to a God, you’ve heard the other kids talk about.
The sky won’t protect you
when you’re driving fast down the road
and the wipers can’t wash away tears that have stained your pale cheeks.
The sky won’t protect you
when your car swerves right and the whole world tilts left,
shifting on its perfect axis, spinning out into an uncontrolled oblivion.

And you will not always be safe,
safe within the arms of life and death.
You will not find safety when struggling against twisted ropes,
burns carving in your ankles and wrists.
You will not find safety
when they stumble in late at night with the smell of death reeking from each breath.
They will knock over each simple lie you have repeated to yourself.
You will not find safety
when hunkered in the bed of a truck,
unsure why you have confessed a love you didn’t mean
and worry whether or not the local pharmacy is open tomorrow morning.
Safety is now easily found.
When we think we have conquered the art of feeling safe with ourselves,
there will always be doubt.
That creates an itch under the cords that bind us
and causes a fire,
destroying the infinities we once wished for.

This is the game I have created for myself.
And despite my worry of how long I will be able to hold these rules,
infinities are dangerous
and better of destroyed,
before the chance to bloom.