Not so sure how to answer that text
I suppose my usual, okay, would suffice
but he left here mad at me for being me.
I wish I could apologize for not being who he wants me to be
but I’ve been doing that my whole life
so fuck off
he wants me to be just so, to fit into his puzzle
but I am that piece that is always lost.
He searches for me at bars, pool halls, cafes,
movie theatres, bookstores, but if he comes
straight home, he’ll find me waiting for him.
I’m drinking tea, not smoking, not drinking,
not living. Born to be a writer.
Writing these stories I’ll never show anyone.
Writing this life I’ll never share with anyone.
Crying over Concordia letters and all the news
I try to avoid all day. This anxiety can eat me
up. This worry can annihilate me. It’s over.
I can never go back to who I was.
I never want to.
He wishes I would do all the things
his mother did
but I’m so bad at being good.
I play treat me like your mother
And he says turn that noise off.