She is the reason
I count the exits before I sit down.
3 windows, 2 doors, 4 friends to go talk to,
I fold myself small in crowded rooms.
I let my shadow walk ahead—
just in case she is waiting behind me.

She is the reason
my name sounds foreign in my own mouth.
It used to be mine,
warm, whole, sure.
Now it is just a noise I do not trust.
“Matthew” she’d call.

I hate hearing that sound

She—
(is the reason I mistake love for danger)
(is the reason I taste irony in "I miss you")
(is the reason I do not know how to love)

She is the reason
I flinch before I am touched.
I flinch before I am hurt.
I flinch before there is even a reason to.

A hug should be easy, not torture.

She is the reason I can’t say "no."
No is a match against gasoline breath.
No is a door ripped off its hinges.
No is a crime scene where I am the suspect.
(why did you make her so mad?)

She is the reason I smile when I am scared.
A trick I learned to survive.
A trick I cannot unlearn.
A trick that fools everyone,
even me.

—But she is not here.

Is she?
I tell myself she is gone,
but she is still the reason.

She is the reason I run.
She is the reason I stay.
She is the reason I am afraid to be loved,
and the reason I am terrified to be alone.

She is the reason.
And I hate that she still is.