bad people do good things
and
good people do bad things
and
good people do bad people
and
on
and
on
you
open. a little. crack the spine of a bird to expand its wingspan. leave kisses along it's crown until it weeps and says: "i am a boy. i am a liberal. i'm a deist now. please believe me."
no. this wouldn't happen.
you open. a little. you meet up and exchange poetry. he says "what does this mean?" and your voice becomes cinders, burning in your throat. (it's about him. it's about things you can't say. it's about the bits he'd never understand even if this would happen. it's about the loathing pooling in your ******* and the dreams he'd reject, the feeling he left in you that feels a little like heartburn, the antacids you take and--)
no. this wouldn't happen either.
it's all wrong.
the library is open tonight, but you don't invite him to coffee. you look at your paltry sympathy and half-hearted methods of fixing things and tinker with them. you've torn up the paper. it cannot be returned. the case with him, the case with her -- this, this would happen again and again until you could get it right.