I am not responsible enough to handle the importance of falling in love.
I pick fights before I’d ever pick scabs to let the wound heal cleaner.
And I am layer upon layer of oil and vinegar stacked so neatly
that even sediment would be jealous of how easily I separate
at the touch of a single finger or glance.
Falling in love is not my strong suit, nor even my weakest suit.
It is my worst suit, the one with the crooked tie and rusted cufflinks.
When a team of archaeologists excavated the largest set of dinosaur bones
ever known to mankind in the valleys of Peru, the first one
immediately knelt down in the dust and tried to reassemble it.
And I’ve come to the conclusion that this is why I fail at love:
no matter how many times I try, try again,
I’m far too eager to build up the skeleton of a relationship
that can never be put back together.