you cried and i didn’t,

because why would we

ever do anything that

adheres to gender stereotypes?



and even though i wasn’t crying,

i could hear myself talking

in an endless stream of cliches

that pulled me through whatever

eddy of frantic panic

of dislocation

of petrifying disorientation

i was feeling,

and pushed me into a remote

grey

corner,

where i couldn’t feel anything

but how your sobs mixed

with the static of

horrible reception.

(and that was crying enough)



you said

“i don’t know what to do,”

you said

“what should i do?”

and **** me if i knew,

because i always know what to do,

but i’m not you,

but that’s why this has worked

for a year

and six days.



so i sat next to my chemistry textbook

on a rough grey slab of stone,

on a day that seemed like it couldn’t decide

whether to shine or not,

and listened to you

gasp

in air

like the words you had to say

but didn’t want to

were multiplying,

a cancer in your throat

and i wanted to

leave them there,

let you suffocate,

so i wouldn’t have to hear them.

but i’m the rock,

and i felt the rock,

and i couldn’t feel anything else by this point anyway,

so i said what i thought i would have to say,

but what i thought was the product of an

overactive imagination.



and this wasn’t sealable,

this wasn’t something that could be cemented into

the bench under my feet,

holding me and my invisible tears

and my chemistry textbook.

because i’m the rock,

but you’re my rock,

and everything was breaking

into something

that cut.



and you didn’t know,

and i didn’t want you to,

and you asked me,

and i didn’t know,

and you didn’t want to,

and i asked you,

and you smiled again,

and i disconnected in the cold of

a shaken faith.



and sat, and watched the grass grow.