I wish that the first time I spoke to you,
I had one hand wrapped around the leather strap
tethered to my dog's collar,
instead of leaving her home to worry
and allowing my hands the
freedom to tear myself apart in
front of you
because finally tearing myself down
felt like a wonderful thing to do.

I wish I'd had her with me
because she has always been
the one more likely to trust her gut
and warn people like you to stay away.

I wish I'd had her with me,
because I know that she would not
have let you take a single step towards me
even if I wanted to let you close.

I still remember the way you would
sweat nervously
at the thought of my hanging around with
my friends who did not like you.
If you were so worried about them,
I am sure you would have been all the more
terrified of her.
Not because she would bite you,
not because she is dangerous.
But because she is not fooled as easily as me.
She would have sensed the danger,
pulling me farther away
than was comfortable for you to imagine.

I say this not to be cruel,
but rather to speak out loud
a thought which has
fluttered through my mind all day,
the corners of my lips curved
in my own quiet amusement.

My dog wouldn't have liked you very much.