he says good morning but
i'm already thinking about good night.
we are bathed in rising sun
but I already crave moonlight.
it's easier to tell hard truths
in the dark, but he's waiting.
he's waiting for me to shed
the skin of this version of me,
the one who shuts her mouth
when she should scream.
and I know this, that he'd
rather listen to me scream
than drown in my silence.
but it's like I've swallowed cement.
and he's looking at me,
he's looking at me,
and his face is filling first with
hurt and anguish
and I know he's thinking
I did something wrong
she doesn't trust me
and I watch it transform
into anger because he's afraid
that both those things are
true, that one night when
I'm silent in the dark,
both of us waiting for me
to say something, anything,
I'm going to slide out
between the shadows
and in the morning he'll say it again
good morning
but the bed will be empty.
and I'm afraid of the very same,
that one day he'll tire of my
sleeping tongue, tire of the
girl too broken to put herself
back together, and I'll wake up
to a cold bed and a silence
that is not my own making.
and somehow we're both
afraid that
goodnight
goodmorning
will become
goodbye, never said,
just left behind, like a ghost
in the bed we used to share.