Her favorite memory,

Of the two of them,

Before things went bad,

Was made in a playground,

In the middle-of-nowhere-Illinois,

When they sat on the swing set,

And looked at the stars,

And she had told him,

That she was chaos,

In a raw form,

And he had said,

With a lopsided smile,

“I accept chaos.”

But he couldn’t seem,

To except her calm,

As much as he did her storm,

And they had fought,

Memories shattering,

Like broken glass,

Fragile and sharp.

And he had yelled,

“You want a battle? I’ll give you a war,

Chaos’s Child.”

And he never could understand,

How she was calm,

And wild,

Messy,

And kind.

He gave her a war,

And she gave him battlefield.