Call me the Queen of Hypothesis
I thought it was a good idea

leaving this.

I want to take a razor to the hair I grew
(long enough to enchant you)
but I won't.
I want to spend all I've got
on nothing at all.
A painted, empty fool who is poverty stricken in riches-
filet mignon, a flight to Spain, fancy finery-
but I won't.

Instead I'll cry in the kitchen.
Cry in the bedroom.
Cry at flowers.
Cry at nothing.

But I won't cut off my hair.

I want to give up.
I want to run away.
Leave town, leave society, leave myself.
But I won't.

Instead I'll hurt.
Hurt in the day.
Hurt in the night.

But I won't give up.

This mouth, it does me wrong.
This mouth says goodbye,
when it only wants to be
on your fingertips
on your neck
on your back
anywhere

just not saying goodbye.

These eyes, they do me wrong.
These eyes have seen the truth of things,
when they only want to
watch you laugh
watch you dress in the morning
watch your body moving on mine-
Just watch you.
And blind themselves against the path we have chosen.

I want to take it back.

But...

I won't.

Instead I'll love you.
And love you.
And love you,
love you,

                           I love you

until I can love me
just as much.

So call us the King and Queen of Hypothesis, darling.
Look at our glass crowns,
how clearly you can see my heart inside,

saving for something more precious

than all the kingdom's gold.

They say it gets better
but they never tell you when.

Isn't a breakup, after all, the surgical excision
of another whole person from your own?
Doc, gimme something to work with here
no post-op measures of comfort, no chemicals,
how long will these symptoms last?

Which day shall be the worst?
What can I eat?
How do I get to sleep?
Why is there so much vertigo?

I've lost my captain. I've lost my compass.

But forget North-

*what way is even up?

I never had the chance
to hear 'I miss you'
uttered from your lips
with any hint
of you sincerely being serious

I can feel the freedom
tearing me
limb from limb
because my core burns out
but my ribs cave in
and every notch on my bedpost
doesn't feel like victory
or anything, really
because the last time I felt
was the last time I said
I miss you
and I won't put myself
through righteous hell
(again)

even though here I stand
pulling excuses from thin air
like,
you forgot your pen,
you still have my sweater,
I still have your virginity,
tucked into that drawer
that I won't open
because it smells like home
and
we both know that would drive me
right over the edge

yet you also know so well
that if I was presented with 'home'
I wouldn't be able to tell
the difference.
So when I say home,
I'm inferring
that it tasted like your absence
and passive aggression
and sheets tangled with sweat
no longer from passion
but from the constant
cage of dreaming
taking a weightless axe
to throats
to home
to anyone
who dares to say
that I've moved on
because

I've moved seventeen times
and never once
have I felt like
I did with your face in my hair
and my chin on your chest
like home.
and I've avoided it so long
and now it's or I am gone
and either way
your eyes shift past my face
past my naked sincerity
past my begging for
'I miss you's
that won't come home.