I don't remember much
(not as much as I should)
but I can't remember a time
I was ever not in love with you.
I love you so much it makes me sick
that even after all that
I would've gone home to you
and not have said anything.
Because they'd say
the war fucked me up,
or my mother fucked me up,
or maybe I was just fucked up,
when really the only thing
that ever fucked me up
was you
(in the best way possible).
I love you so much
it made them think
it made me sick,
but you were my favorite flavor of flu.
And I dare anyone to spend half as much time
as I have, and not find themselves
falling for you like I did.
I love you so much it makes me sick
to contemplate those other places
where you left me behind
on your way "home."
I thought we were home.
You told me you felt at home
because I was there,
no matter how different everything was
(how different I was).
I love you so much it makes me sick
to think about you going home
and not going back for me.
Even in this multiverse of multiverses,
in the infinite possibilities,
in the uncountable variations,
I cannot imagine a version of you
that would allow me to suffer
for seventy fucking years
while you married your dream gal
and retired to that heterosexual
socially acceptable
construct. (You'd marry her
and I wouldn't even be there
to be your Best Man.
You told me you wanted me there
(you told me we'd get married on the same day).
I must excuse my absence from
your virgin-white wedding;
I was too busy being taken apart,
piece by painful piece,
in the belly of the beast
you failed to slay,
and your Save the Date
didn't make it to fucking Siberia.)
Did you tell me all that
to ease your guilty conscience?
Because, what,
I was see-through
and you always knew?
But if I was that transparent,
you would know you were never a burden
on me. "Not to me,
not if it's you."
Was I so wreathed in red roses
and boyhood love
and the tender kisses on your temples
that you pitied me?
Wanted to pay me
for helping you?
Because that's bullshit.
If you wanted to repay me
for something I did of my own volition,
because I'm just fucked up enough
to be saved by my love for you,
you would help me.
By going back,
but not with me,
but not for me,
you left me there—
not even to die,
you know better
than to think I died
—you left me there to be turned inside-out.
But, I guess,
you saved me the first time, right?
So I'll make do with the secret kiss
that one winter you came closer to death
than usual. I'll make do
with the kiss I hallucinated
you returned when you saved me.
I guess I'll make fucking do
so you can look at her
and not tell her about the past decade
and finally say "I do."
I'll make fucking do.
You made my grave;
all there is left
is to lie in it
and let you bury me
in the past—perfect—
and the future never to come.