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“My wife died from diabetes at the age of 39, thank God.” “Thank God?” “Oh, she was mean. She cheated on me six times—three of them with my father. The fifth time, she caught herpes.” 

Packed it up; six months all in a box and a car.

Waded home through lights and valleys,

And sat on the floor at my parents’ place,

Just watching everyone leave.

But now I’m looking at you through a screen,

And I hope you know full well,

That even though this feels

Like church feels to my father,

Like that first sip of coffee when you wake up,

Like the first time you knew music would

Always hold you like your oldest friend,

It’s still gonna sting sometimes.

You won’t always smile like this.

It’s still gonna sting sometimes.

You won’t always want me near.

But until you do:

I’ll be the peach tree in your front yard.

Giving you shade ‘til your burns and bruises

I so desperately long to lash out.

To speak my mind and change yours.

Until my throat grew raw, I’d scream that I was right.

That you’ve been dead wrong.

That this isn’t the answer you sought.

But that’s what you want.

To rest your crooked spine on the crest

Of the white hot words I sling at you.

Finding comfort in my discontent.

To smile in the silence I leave around you

And immerse yourself in the fact

That I still harbor such deep seeded feeling.

That I hate myself enough to watch your every move

And do nothing about the things I can’t control.

That’s what you want.

But I want so much more than that.

I want to bore you out from beneath my ribs

and smear you in the dirt.

Feel you between my fingers

Turn the water on

and watch you spiral down the drain.

Seal you in a jar full of everything 

I’ve ever loved or lost or fucked or set aside.

Bury you with nothing but a spade 

Too dull to scrape your way out.

… … .

Not that I’d think of you any less.

Not that you’d ever really leave my room.

You will regroup.

You will rebuild.

You will remain.

And I, darling one,