No one tells you that you fall out of love with a snore. No one tells you a breathing promise won’t win in a street fight against a dying vow. No one tells you that falling in love will leave marks on your body more than his fingers digging into your ass ever could have. No one tells you your muscles atrophy while grief plays roulette with your body. No one tells you that a ghost won’t leave your veins once it takes over vacancy. No one tells you that you’ll meet someone that already knows everything the one before never figured out about you. No one tells you that your dreams become your scars. No one tells you how a heart takes years to break piece by piece until it’s grains of salt in a wound we call living.
Margot Stillings is a cocktail napkin poet, and photographer. Her work explores the space between rays of light and dark corners. She is a reader/editor at Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her being generally ridiculous and drinking irresponsible amounts of cold brew coffee on Twitter at @margotstillings.