I know, one day, I will be able to look back and say remember when, I just assumed you were the person I would say it to.
The truth is, the raw-hard truth, men are not purchases of furniture; I run away, regret and come back, but they, you, are no longer there. Even when you give me the worst of you, I still have some of you; and I would like to pretend that I might love myself enough to leave, but I don’t. I climb up to my chamber of doom to catch a look at the life I never wanted but helped create. Suddenly all the histories I forecast not to be are me and I am them. They braid my hair at night.
If I could love you how you need to be loved, I would. Can I give you traditional when my days are dictated by blue pills swallowed after green pills? Children when my reactions cannot be trusted; I cannot be trusted. Then do you see, Darling, it bubbles through my skin to drip lava pools on the floor: you will not erase my lack of self-worth, but stand by me as I learn to detach from the past that groomed it. For once, everything needs to be right.
Close to the middle you wanted to give me everything, after. Up in my cedar-block sanctuary there was a wedge of patience when we became salvageable. (I packed it with cement to practice your values as mine.) Perhaps I forgot to climb down from my chamber of doom and ask why we both had to change each other to be with each other. There will never be enough. I can manipulate myself to wear a forgettable shade of white wedding gown, but that would be the worst death of all. Just love me, my angels and my demons, and you never have to because like witches and ghosts, some things are better left alone than burned for empty answers. Then if we must stop hunting for each other and disappear, let us go cleanly to not imprint our nerves further with dirty tracks.
At the fork, shake hands on a job finished, not well done. We can both dissipate into the world we neglected but as separates. Ask me if I adore you and this time I will not lie, I look for your side of the bed in others; I will not think of you touching someone else. The round-trip fiction on forgiveness and bold promises, after, left me alone still. So surely I can sit in this awhile to chew over the what-ifs. Tell your friends I am a constant state of psychosis because I will tell mine about your tainted perspective.
How rich and crisp our vocabularies will become on the pros of moving forward, untainted. Where were we then, my dear, when we fought over the concrete ambiguity of our souls? We threw dated regrets into the fire until we had nothing left to burn but ourselves. Now, no matter how thin I get, I will never fit into the cracks of your mind the way I once could. The way that left everything unspoken feel like sheets of skin peeled back with pliers. Until, the comfort of us reduced that time we needed.
With the season change, we are back at our core. We tackle through building sized blades of grass, with leftover seeds that forgot to bloom, to suck some more water from its stock. It travels past our bones, to the soggy pit of our stomachs, rests in the invisible holes of our flesh. We exist again to nurse an aseptic love until that high fades into sober.
As I tell you this, I just want more time with the you that cannot rip me apart by one sentence. So I will put things into our core that you will not to find that you again: my money, my time, my friends, my will. Then as you and I picnic under the chamber of doom’s silhouette, I take a bite from an apple and ask why you no longer put things into our core?
So then, one day, you and I will say remember when, together, but under the script of friends as opposed to lovers.
Can You Feel This: Self-Help for Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, and Mental Health Advocacy