Maybe there would have been a punchline, a way
to make this better, a promise that doesn’t begin with
I will try to love you.
I will try to stay.
I will try to string this love up to the ceiling
so it doesn’t keep falling when we’re not looking.
If I can’t love you, at least I can have this:
your body against mine, your lips at my ear,
our smiles like curses.
We wanted each other because we knew it’d piss the world off,
because everything we did was to ruin ourselves, because
my hands still shook when I touched you.
I wanted to stop being so afraid of the way you love me.
I wanted to stop.
My therapist asked about you once, ended the question with
break your heart? and I worried my lip so hard it bled,
because that’s what loving you was like,
hurting in a way that makes you want more
until you taste the blood in your mouth and realise
you’ve gone too far.For days after, I deleted a thousand sentences from poems
because they sounded too honest and
that’s what poetry is about, isn’t it, lying
until what you’re feeling
sounds pretty in the way it never was.
They say if you love someone you should let them know but
I’ve had enough love confessions to last me a century:
One, you leave. Two, I leave.
Three, we walk in opposite directions
and you pretend you can’t feel my eyes on your back.
For months I’ll wake up with my teeth breaking around your name
and pretend this was the only way
it could have ended.
This love used to be a rope leading us home; now
it’s hanging from a roof in an empty house, a letter
in my handwriting saying: We were never meant to last,
but we sure as hell
weren’t supposed to end like this.