TEN

 

will you stay by my side if i lose it again?
you said: it’s six years i’m not ready to throw away.
then turned away.

in you i lost my infamous composure.
dialing thirty numbers, i canceled the sweet sixteen of my girl with the blood-streamed arms and kept my voice from cracking.
at the end i cried myself to sleep and even prayed a bit,
that you’d be home for christmas.

you call me tiresome. you call me burdensome.
you call me heartless, selfish, and mean.
you call yourself a problem-solver, liken yourself to a saint,
a martyr. then turn my way and state:
you are not the world’s victim.
if i remember correctly, it was your blood i wiped from the bathroom tiles, then stole your razor, and crawled into bed beside you. why? because the weight of the world was on your shoulders.
if i remember correctly, i never dared to hit you with the triviality of the reality of that weight you felt holding you down.
rather, i offered to take it from you on to myself.
if i remember–
(six years is a long time to remember, i may be wrong)
it was you who came to me, over and again, and asked for help,
for love, for understanding, for a little security when the walls were crumbling down around your tiny, scarred, body.
and, if i remember, i never turned you away.

you said: it’s six years i’m not ready to throw away.
but when i asked again, you were already gone.