Today is your father's funeral.
Part of me
feels guilty for not being there
even though I only met him once
and you spoke so poorly of your childhood.
The other part of me
screams about how you broke my spirit
and robbed me of 6 months
of this precious life.
I'll never forget
the feeling of complete loss of control
that you convinced me
was all my fault.
**** my empathic soul
and **** you
for making me believe
I wasn't worth the kind of love
that I have now.

I often think about the summer before I went away,
probably more than I should.
I was working that job I hated
and you were living in the house
that felt more like a home to me than mine ever did.

I think about all of the nights that my life felt like a classic teen movie,
with my eyes acting as the camera
and your lucid words writing the script in real-time.
Us and a few close friends sneaking onto a rooftop
in the town where we grew up and grew to love.
Laughing until our stomachs hurt
and yelling things at the unsuspecting people below.
Forgetting what time it was.
Forgetting that there was a whole world below us,
which we chose to escape for the night.
My heart was light, and it felt like floating.

Now friends are in different states,
becoming people I’ll never know.
The garbage can we used as a ladder
is no longer where we could always find it,
and the gate behind the bank,
which was almost always conveniently left open,
has been locked for years.

I remember how carefree I felt on those nights.
But I tend to idolize nostalgia,
whether the past was truly picture-perfect or not.
All I know is, I was lucky enough to have had those nights,
and the unwavering memories that they created.

I’m sorry I make us late for everything.

I’m sorry that my inability to make decisions frustrates you.
I'm sorry that I constantly seem distracted and detached,
and that I never have any good suggestions
or anything genuinely interesting to say.
I’m sorry that my irrational questions annoy you -
It’s just that I always get caught in these loops of anxiety
that I can’t possibly find a way out of,
let alone explain to you.
I get stuck,
like a broken record, playing the same part of a song
over and over.
My mind convinces me that you’re displeased.
I’m sorry I can’t look you in the eye,
because I know I must have done something wrong.
I’m sorry I withdraw and fall silent.
I’m sorry I consistently expect more, but continue to give less.

I’d like to call you a bookmark

because I want to think I can

remove you from my story at will.

But you’re more like a dog-eared page,

that remains creased 
long after it’s been remembered and unfolded.

When I flip through the pages

I’ll always catch my thumb on you

and try to find the lesson

you may or may not have taught me

about love

or myself.

But I’m pretty sure all you’ve left me with

is a deep, stinging paper cut

that makes me hesitant 
to ever pick up a book again.

Maybe if it was raining outside,
all of this would make sense.
The heavy drops would hit my window,
in this house that I’m not home in

It would create context, and rationalize
to my mother, to my friends,
who know of it but don’t see it,
who think it’s inside my head.
The funny thing is, it is inside my head
but not in the way they think

I can drink it away –
every sip feeling less,
until I feel it all at once.
drinking’s no good, I know this already.

So what is there to do?
A question left unrequited
like the meaning of life, or
where to go for dinner, or
how long I can keep you around.

I guess, if it was raining this would all make sense.
But there’s not a cloud in the sky.

I like
old-fashioned coke bottles
and the way the glass fogs up,
so I know it’s ice cold.
I like
the smell in the air after it rains
on a mild summer afternoon.
I like
my stomach in knots,
peanut butter ice cream,
driving with no destination,
freshly fallen snow,
the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
I like
back scratches
and goose bumps
and laughing at nothing in particular;
just for the hell of it.
And I think
I like
you.