You can tell him how incredibly annoying it is that he makes love with his socks on, and you can tell him that no matter how many country songs he plays the jeep will still be broken and the sun will still go down at five o’clock despite the garage lights and the cans of Miller.
Tell him I really didn’t notice him when he walked in, and tell him that maybe I’ll be over to the party Saturday, or that he walks pigeon-toed and that’s why he ***** at walking on the curbs.
You can tell him anything you want to, just don’t tell him that I love the way he holds a spoon like a shovel or how his hair sticks up in the front outside his hood in the mornings, or that his pants don’t fit his waist that dips in from his belly, soft, skin warm from my body lying on top of his, and don’t tell him
that the more backwards we bend the more forwards I fall. Don’t tell him that sometimes I make the bed just so I can stay longer, please, don’t tell him that the way he looks in a towel with water dripping from his bottom lip makes me want to crawl back into bed, rattle his bones, and **** the kisses with my teeth as I dig myself deeper into this infrastructure, this balance, between hating what I’ve done, and loving someone who’s never going to think you’re enough.
Don’t tell him that I’ve strung together our moments like a necklace and that I wear that burden on my chest, hoping, between prayers that I find a way to breathe. Don’t tell him that I’ve broken over him. Don’t tell him
that sometimes my double-takes are triple and sometimes I cry in the bathroom and sometimes— just please (save me*) please don’t tell him.