They say that if you say something too many times it will lose it’s meaning
So I kept saying I love you, I love you, I love you
And waiting for it to fade
But it didn’t

You kept telling me you loved me
“I love you, I love you, I love you”
But I don’t know if you still do

I wish someone could tell me how falling out of love works
Can you wake up and an entire relationship turn to dust and ash in your heart,
Ready to be swept out to the wind to make room for new experiences, new people, new repetitions?
Or can I rise like a phoenix from those ashes and set your heart on fire again?

If there’s a mustard seed left, I’ll plant it.
Give me an apple and I’ll grow you an orchard.
If there were more planting analogies for me here, ones about faith and patience, I’d use them.
Because even after days of silence, I still spend my shooting stars on you.

I will blow out all the candles, break every wish bone. I will dig out my ruby slippers and click my heals together three times because home is when I’m alone with you.

"Repetition" - t. 
befitzgeraldwriting
Baby birds fell like snow from our porch rafters each spring.
Gentle handed and stubborn hearted
I would scoop them up in shoe boxes
and beg my mother to let me teach them how to fly.
They always died a few days later.
I always cried.
A few months ago, I learned that when she was younger
my mom used to make a home for all of the neighborhoods
abandoned animals in the families old woodshed.
At her peak, she had two dogs, three cats, and one gray rabbit.
When my grandmother caught on to this
she made her set them all loose, hoping her daughter
would learn that some things are pointless to cage.
But habits never die they just take on new bodies.
Sheds turn into first dates and beasts turn into bad lovers.
My whole life, I watched her bring home men with heavy accents
who introduced themselves to me by their first names.
They never stayed.
She always cried.
I am beginning to wonder if this is an inherited trait.
Broken boys started writing me songs
and braiding me necklaces in the 9th grade.
Gentle handed and stubborn hearted
I used to think that they wanted me to save them.
I willingly threw every part of myself into their food bowls.
They would suck on my hipbones some nights until
I was certain there couldn’t be any meat left on me.
They always left.
I always cried.
I have heard people claim that theirs hearts are homes…
mine is nothing but a pound for stray dogs and boys.
b.e.fitzgerald (Stray.Stay.)