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Monday, March 28, 2016

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Thursday, March 24, 2016


I keep writing myself
so I can remember
not to fall in love
with you.

But then you go and give
the keys to your house
and tell me to
hang around as long
as I want and watch
cartoons while
you work.

And then when I say
no thanks,
you insist on
helping me
load my bike into
my car

And this is where I would normally
declare my independence
and say
I can do it myself,

But you make me
want to let you
do things for me. Because
you seem to like it

And so when
you grab
the check and pay
the bill every time
we go out to eat,

I no longer insist
on splitting everything

I want to let you
Take care of me.

And this is something
I haven't
felt in a while.
So although
I keep writing
these poems
to remind myself
not to fall in love,

You reach over
to me in the
and pull me
close to your body,
hold me tight,
and offer to make me

And bring it to me in
bed, hot and dark,
your smile
as bright
as the day outside
your windows,
blocked by metal shutters
so your room stays
dark and cool
no matter the time of day.

And all these reminders
I keep writing on the walls
are not working
at all.

Who wouldnt love (Reprise)

After the first time we fucked I wrote a poem about you titled
The Man who Would not Love Me.
I wanted to remind myself that I knew you were going to break my heart
And that I had entered into this agreement willingly.

The time we stopped fucking for a month my
grieving heart splintered into tiny shards of glass
And I wanted to use one of them to cut it out of my body so I would not have to feel anymore what it felt like to love you.
But instead I searched for the poem to remind myself, (willingly)
and it--
like my dignity--
had disappeared.

The third time I asked you if we could start fucking again,
You asked me what was going to be different.
"I've put you into a different box. It'll be different." I said. "Trust me." You didn't--
But then: "You're a grownup, so I'm only asking you this once: Are You Sure?"
What I didn't say:
I knew that you weren't going to love me back how I wanted to be loved.
And I wanted to love you anyway.

The time I broke my leg
You brought me books and movies and laughter
"HEY NOW, none of this moping-" You said.
You gave me encouragement and guidance. You said you would have been at the hospital holding my hand through the pain if you could (I didn't believe you, but it was nice of you to say.)

But you would not do the one thing I wanted most: lay down in my bed and hold me.
When you went home I cried and then had a crazy-freak-out Percocet drug trip where you appeared to me as an apparition.
You said, as directly as you'd ever been to me in real time, "I'm not going to be that guy for you."

The first time I really accepted you for who you are,
I was able to love you for who you were able to be with me
Instead of who I wanted you to be.