There is no home to go to; there are cigarettes still burning in the ashtray we made out of a Folger's can, and you have forgotten to put them out.
Forgive me, I'm bitter now, and I think it'll be hard for me to love again, because you are my teacher.
Do you believe in heaven?
I still think about five years ago, and I know you do to.
I still think about being horrific and you getting red in the face and crying over the past.
I remember pregnant anger, and you hitting me, and me hitting you, because I said I hated you.
I think there are good things that last.
Sometimes I mow lawns and try to make the straightest lines possible; I am afraid you will see them and be angry with me.
Sometimes I have nightmares about not being able to fix things.
I have kissed you tenderly on the cheek, but because I'm not young anymore, it seems stupid and wrong.
But there's a bigger question: Do you even like me? Do I even like you?
And we manufacture love, because you are always sad and hurt and I am shy and scared; afraid that you will say something that will make me leave and be scared for a lifetime.