this is how i remember it

number one: i ask you why your favorite color is green. you ignore the question and instead begin to tell me a story of when you were younger, of the farm you lived on in that small town in italy. i give you my full attention. i nod when i feel i should, i respond when timing aligns. what i dont say is when i leave, i will close my eyes as i drive past the field down the street.

what i dont say is the first boy i was ever sure i loved had green eyes so bright i was scared one day theyd burn out. i dont tell you about the day they did. i dont tell you about how i had to watch, how i could not do anything but watch.

i dont tell you about december and how hard it was. i dont tell you about the way he told me he loved me and proved it with a grip so tight i could not see straight. i do not bring up all the trouble this tunnel vision got me in. or how long i was holding my breath.

i dont tell you about the streetlight and the way it was just bright enough for me to make out the green irises in the man before me, shell shocked and defensive like his own breed of cacti. i dont tell you why i will always remember him as a form of cacti. how he will always be a freaking thorn in my side, how just because you cant see it doesnt mean it was never there-- i do not tell you this is not italy.

this is not your perfect small town.

this is emptiness.

this is what broken looks like.

if you bend down to feel the grass in your backyard, the blades will slice your fingers.

i keep this all hidden beneath my tongue and when your story is over, i ask you again, why your favorite color is green. why you cant see the destruction hidden in its hues. you smile. you just smile and something in me breaks.