a study on human constructions and time travel

love, blind as an eagle, flew into my window, mistaking it for open air
when i was a month away from sixteen.
i twisted my ankle jumping over hoses snaking across the garage floor,
down a flight of stairs and landed on unlevel floors. it didn’t swell up until later that night, when i was left alone with only the ice pack and the floor.
time travel is devastatingly real.
and painful. no one tells you that until you lose an arm in the process
and your left aorta is caught between dimensions. when i was twelve
i was taught to show, never tell, but there is only enough room for telling.
because when i was thirteen, i loved you
and now almost three years later, you tell me the same. perhaps a part of me
does not believe in love. neither in mine for you, nor yours for me.
when i was ten,
we had a math project about fractions and having your cake and eating it too,
and here i gained nothing, lost everything.
if only this were kiss, marry, kill, like the games we played when i was nine,
but i know nothing about marriage. when
is it legal— proper— to say i love you? when i was seven,
i put cake in the microwave with a fork.
and the wood floors burn,
because no one tells you that you can’t put metal in the microwave until you do.