My mind assaults me
with imaginary conversations:
things I want to say
to you,
how I want to be
brutally honest
but
knowing these words
won't come out as
graceful and significant
as they would
here
in my black box.
And I know
I should leave things
alone.
But that's not who I am.
It's like a scab on my arm,
I try to let it heal
but the urge to make myself bleed
is all consuming.
I just want to be your
friend.
I'm sorry about
the way I acted
on that night.
I'll try to
promise that won't happen
again.
And I hope you don't judge me.
I know why
you asked about
him.
To remind me
of the wall
between us.
I've been trying
so fucking hard
to make things work.
But trying to be happy with
someone so sad
who refuses to get help
is breaking me.
So yes,
that night
I smelled the sweat on your skin
and touched your hair
and held your hand
made me feel lovely and warm
and alive.
And that's just what you did
to my mind...
But I don't want to use you
as an
emotional ice pack
for my battered heart.
So can we just
be
friends?
