I pause, turn around. Maybe I didn’t hear you well.
“Sorry?”
You take a long drag, blow out smoke. This is your answer.
I look down,
I am still hesitating.
Ii. “You deserve to be happy.”
This makes no sense to me, and yet
I say it anyway.
“So do you,” you reply.
We are stating the obvious.
iii. “It’s not my fault.”
This is my secret mantra now
The words echo into pillows and blurry mirrors,
into goodbyes and tight hugs.
I am not the cause of your pain.
I am not the cause of your pain.
“I did nothing.”
This is how I reassure myself.
I am doing nothing.
I am proficient in the language of you by now
and this phrase always precedes a bad night.
I watch you inhale, exhale, repeat
Smoke billowing from your mouth and vanishing into the air.
We are silent.
I am not strong enough to force this from my mouth;
the wound is forever open.
I live in fear of your thrill of death, but I don’t reveal it.
Instead, I say
“I’m here for you.”
I repeat it until you believe me
I hope it’s true.
I chant this until it has lost its meaning,
until there is no substance left within it.
You say, “There are snakes in my stomach.”
You say, “Something doesn’t want me to breathe.”
You say, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
I say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know what else to say.
vii. “You’re a good listener.”
This is always followed by an apology
“I’m sorry for dumping this on you.”
I wave it away with practiced hands
“It’s fine. It helps to talk,”
and I believe this to be true
Even though you seem to be getting worse.
viii. “So, how are you?”
You are trying. I can see that.
But the only thing I care about is saving you.
“Good,” I say.
“Good,” you say.
I wonder if you think of me
as much as I think of you.
“Yes, you do,” I press.
“You just said you can feel the thrill.”
You shake your head, you explain:
All that is left is the absence of feelings.
There is a hole where your emotions used to be
And the “thrill” isn’t a feeling, it’s a part of the numbness.
I fall silent,
because I understand.
I look at you to make sure you heard me.
“I love you too.”
We embrace, and you smell like smoke.
I imagine my breath going into your lungs,
my hands folding into an eternally comforting position around yours,
my body taking all of your pain upon itself. I inhale,
and I wonder if your thrill of death
feels anything like my thrill of loving you.
Poetry