Cut to me: tempting his anger with my white-knuckled grip and words so honest they could make a saint scream.
Cut to him: choking on his own twisted tongue and front-door fear.
Cut to me: still holding the reins of the wreckage, still not letting go-
Cut to him: saying sort yourself out, saying he’s broken women far stronger, saying anything he can to turn me against him, saying he’d pay for my own heart to be sealed.
Cut to me: a daisy in my mouth, a blackbird in my hand, a shattered window in my chest. I have this feeling that I'm not supposed to be here, I have this feeling that I’m only half-way through this story.
Cut to him: six feet tall, and each one a cellblock of quiet anguish.
Cut to me: cutting my feet on breaking branches, scraping my fingers on the rough bark of a tree. The poems don’t say anything, the tears never come. The rain falls in the wrong places, the daffodils die for the wrong reasons.
Cut to him: new job, new state, new life. Starting from scratch but still scratching at the itch that looks like me, still licking wounds from the daggers aimed at my hope that ricocheted back to his own. What does he do with his hands when he thinks of me? How does he deal with his guilt when it claws up his throat and he’s afraid to spit it out?
Cut to me: dreaming him with long hair. I don’t know where to imagine him when I imagine him; a topographic map of unknowing in my mind- an uncured landscape and rough terrain. I see him as a question mark in the wilderness; forging his own labyrinth of twisted truths and hop-scotching the minefield he planted.
Cut to him: Not really in the wilderness, probably in a condo in a mid-sized city. I think if he meets a nice girl who tags him in her Facebook posts, I’d have to **** myself.
Cut to me: demolishing the both of us, casting his secrets like seeds in the dirt, watching scandal bloom, and his character rot in the high noon sun.
Cut to me: imagining annihilation, holding his hand while leading us to slaughter, destroying us both, and having a marvelous time doing it. I’d make sure they slit my throat first; he’d have to hold me while I bleed out, stroke my face as it loses color, and tell me it’s going to be okay as I fade away.
Cut to me: doing none of these things. I don’t have it in me; when I told him I’d never hate him, I meant it. Wading through summer defanging the snakes in my belly, hoping he’s declawing the tigers in his mind. I won’t admit that I’m waiting, but the story's just half-told. Our plot is paused, and I’m sitting alone, but what if it’s merely intermission, and he’s just at the bar, getting us drinks?
