He says, "I'm not really into you, I'm into the idea of you.
Sit still, don't speak... what you think is unimportant...
how you feel is beside the point I'm making."
And so, so still I sit on the edge of his bed without a word... without words.
And I am fine with this. So fine with this. Just brush the hair out of my face
and pull the strands that have found themselves fixed in my lip gloss
on my lips... for which he has no interest.
"Uninterested in the uninteresting. Understandable.
Underestimate me repeatedly."
His reply to this brings words of discontent... I speak to only wipe
the blood from my lips. To cover bruises and cuts.
I speak to feel... something, anything will do. A random word for infliction.
I am alive.
I spoke and I moved...
Across the country... across the world.
And still I dream by his bedside... so quiet, so still... I barely move or breath until the moment I awake and realize.... I am not there............... anymore
I am free to speak and move... but I am still so soft and still, out of habit, or fear?
Either way I can't seem to help but think: God, he'd be so proud.