Stubborn

Your version of love is long silences and cruel words.
It stems from a pain you do not know what to do with. 
You haven't healed, refuse to heal, build a monument to sorrow in your chest and heart and head and life and just refuse to heal. 
To help yourself. To be whole.
In your half-century aftermath, you've dragged to the earth, like an avaricious sinkhole everything good and pure. 
You've killed love. You've killed hope. You've killed joy. 
You've halted celebration right in its birthday tracks.
You're grieving and grieving and grieving and your ocean of tears is so mind-bogglingly vast, that it has swept everything up and left nothing in its wake. 
No flotsam. 
No jetsam. 
No islands of broken hearts treading the water, anchorless.