Stop telling me you’ll clean up the messes
(because I am the mess).
Stop telling me you’ll take care of the dishes
(because he used to throw them at me).
This is love,
to be certain,
but I don’t know if I’m deserving.
Your favorite color changes,
you don’t update your Facebook status.
You tell me you love me in your sleep
when the sleepiness of it all blurs your words
to incomprehensible smears of thought.
You hold me with an arm like a hook
wrapped around me pulling me from the edge.
And right now, I feel like I’m on the edge.
(Teetering between sanity and whatever this is.)
I want you to forgive me,
but you tell me I have nothing to be sorry for.
I want you to love me,
but you insist you already do.
I feel like a set of chipped & broken dishes.
(The kind of thing you would just return to the store,
demand a refund for, and get new, fresh, better.)
I feel like I am so undeserving because
I couldn’t tell people your favorite movie
or what dreams you had last night.
(I know you touch yourself to beautiful women
without rolls or curves or scars or ugly writing
on the insides of their wrists,
without out-of-control eyebrows.
I know you are tired of me crying on days that end
I know you are tired of being the strong one,
but just so you know,
I’m tired of being the fragile one.)