I feel like I watched everyone I love slip away and pull back
And I beg you don’t do it, too, but if you do, at least
Say sorry and pull the knife out of my back.
Sometimes, when I fall asleep, though it takes so long,
I wake up, in the middle of the night,
I writhe in pain, and see you there.
I even had a dream, and it felt so real,
(it wasn’t)
Where you were waking up, getting ready, brushing your hair
And I stayed in bed, why, I don’t know
But maybe so I could watch you tip toe across
The floorboards, bend down to grab your things,
Because your movement fuels my beating heart.
And it’s odd, really, I woke up
(alone), and honestly,
The pain was unbearable. And honestly,
I would **** to have you here with me.

Like throwing bedsheets
In the wash with a blade, and the
Fabric gets caught and torn, tattered and
Ripped, and when I pull them out, they’re
A knot you can’t undo, can’t
Untie, like our feet dancing
Through the seams at night when the moon
Spilled through the blinds and we
Woke up to birds and sunlight, but now
There’s blood on the satin, the
White fabric, and I can’t get it out, I can’t
Seem to scrub them clean, so it stays, and
I let it, like an omen, like ripping open
A pomegranate and letting juice spill but
Maybe dirt under my fingernails from
Pulling at my heart is just what
Jesus died for

Under a streetlight, like a moth dancing
through a foggy night, or a deer
cascading through a dark forest, I want
wildflowers to bloom all over me, I want
to be reborn. And I want to move
like I used to, then maybe you could
hold me, like you did
when I was young, before you were angry,
before I was set for the gallows. I miss
how we used to dance, I miss when I’d say,
“watch this”, and I’d do something stupid
that I could only dream of doing now. And still,
I wish I could be like I was, and I wonder
if you do too. We’re so alike, a moon
and sun, two twisted spines, two
spiders in a web that we struggle to crawl through.
And maybe that’s why I love you, not as a father, as
a human being. As the buck you shot, as the
Jersey boy your mom reminisces of. And maybe you love me not
as a daughter, but as the baby you held,
the fawn in the road you hit. But why do I burn still
with the wish that you would love me as I am
now, not as I was, not as a girl, but
as an adult with dreams, with aspirations, even though
you ripped them out of my hands, and stomped them out
as you did the cigarettes you used to smoke
with my mother.