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Thursday, March 24, 2016

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. 

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