picked at it
I am tired of waking up with you.
of having to explain you
in order to explain myself.
who is going to want to share such a crowded bed?
against the advice of my sisters and therapist
I asked you to come see me.
you owed me a favor after all.
I invited you into my house,
opened the door this time.
we sat together. we watched a movie.
I don’t remember which one but I do remember laughing,
my body wanting to be close to your body,
what a betrayal.
she wanted,
I think,
softness,
where there was once so much anger
like if your hand could be gentle in my hand
that would forgive it for for shoving my face into a bed,
we all do a lot of different things with our bodies, don’t we?
like it would all feel better if it was just a bad night,
and you were not a bad person
who was incapable of kindness,
like you weren’t so obviously,
unmistakably monstrous,
that there hadn’t been some impossible oversight,
that there was a reason we used to crawl
intentionally
into bed with you
and beg you to stay in Boston
and nearly drown under the weight of missing you the first time you left,
and again, the begging to stay, even after that night with your hands and my head and the bed and the screaming,
that it made sense,
at some point,
to have loved you,
that it wasn’t our fault for loving you.
I asked you if I could sit beneath your arm,
“I was hoping you would.”
I don’t remember the movie
but I remember the relief.
“you cannot be healed by those who broke you,”
or whatever therapeutic Bell Hooks quote that is probably, actually, really helpful but impossible to use in moments like this
because god I wanted it,
missed who I wanted you to be for me.
before you left
your hand in my hair, “I’m remembering all the reasons I fell in love with you,”
we kissed.
we did not kiss.
you are blonde with blue eyes and that is all I know of your face anymore.
I still think of you,
sometimes.
I think of our apartment,
before I became afraid of you,
before I was only comfortable while you were sleeping and I was not.
I think of your lips.
how soft they were.
no one else can make me cum like you.
I worry you’re going to kill yourself and leave me here,
the only one remembering.
please don’t.
you owe me the burden.
I still think of you,
sometimes
I want you to find something soft and kind and to be loved.
I do not wish who you were on anyone,
but I hope you became someone good.
I still think of you,
all the time.
I hope you die alone, unfulfilled, untouched and tortured,
I wish no version of you on anyone.
each morning when I wash my face
and catch a glimpse of the scar above my lip -
if I hadn’t picked the scab -
