How are you?

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

feels right.

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

really loud.

And he says turn that noise off.

 

 

 

 

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