B#6

I told you I was
sorry
a million times,
counting each repentance
like a lash
taking flight
on the words “I wish”

I wish
that you could see
the mess in my head
when you shook me
like an earthquake
and all my supports
came toppling
down; I wish
that you,
drunkardly passed out
on the couch,
could have heard my cries
when I finally
felt safe enough
to tell you everything

For a figment
you are still so
heavy
and laborious
and make my arms
weak and tired,
but then I remember
that you
have to carry
yourself too,
and you must
be exhausted

Storybooks only teach us
happy endings —
they don’t teach us
how to lift
this inexorable weight

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