My boy loves me.
I'm sorry I keep talking about it. I just feel like if I stop, I won't ever figure it out.
He loves me, he does.
I guess I resign to never seeing that side of life. I resign to all those things we shoved aside. The ones we put in the dresser drawer at night, saying we'd bring them out again when the time is right. Then he locked it tight and put the key in the medicine cabinet. Right where I'd never see it.
My boy…
He told me small lies and grand truths and I called that love. He gave me reality and cynicism and I called that chivalry. He threw everything I knew into a jar and shook it up and when I got it back, I couldn't tell the difference between heaven and the word "up." I put my hands on the floor and walked on the ceiling and claimed I was just doing what I was supposed to do.
He loves me.
I got tired of saying it. Of reminding myself. It became the only thing I knew to be true.
He loves me. My boy, he loves me.
After the river incident of June 2013, I was worse than ever. I was trying to erase imprints of his thumbs on my forearms. I was trying to sever the ties he had roped around my ankles. I had cowered in his shadow for so long that I was afraid of my own. I was expecting 6 more weeks of winter. Turtlenecks, tights, and gloves in 90 degree weather.
He hated himself, he hated what he thought about, and he despised what he became. He left little notes on the floor, and cleaned out my bedroom closet, and never once questioned the things I had collected over the years. He made me breakfast. The eggs were cold. But the bacon was perfect.
The eggs were cold, but the bacon was perfect. The days were fine, but the evenings were fragile. The parties were long, but the walks home were lonely. And I'll never forget the day he left drunk and I had to carry his shoes. He never asked me once what I believed in. He always assumed that I would leave him. He was right to worry. He was wrong to believe it. No, I was too afraid.
He loves me, he does.
I guess I resign to never seeing that side of life. I resign to all those things we shoved aside. The ones we put in the dresser drawer at night, saying we'd bring them out again when the time is right. Then he locked it tight and put the key in the medicine cabinet. Right where I'd never see it.
My boy…
He told me small lies and grand truths and I called that love. He gave me reality and cynicism and I called that chivalry. He threw everything I knew into a jar and shook it up and when I got it back, I couldn't tell the difference between heaven and the word "up." I put my hands on the floor and walked on the ceiling and claimed I was just doing what I was supposed to do.
He loves me.
I got tired of saying it. Of reminding myself. It became the only thing I knew to be true.
He loves me. My boy, he loves me.
After the river incident of June 2013, I was worse than ever. I was trying to erase imprints of his thumbs on my forearms. I was trying to sever the ties he had roped around my ankles. I had cowered in his shadow for so long that I was afraid of my own. I was expecting 6 more weeks of winter. Turtlenecks, tights, and gloves in 90 degree weather.
He hated himself, he hated what he thought about, and he despised what he became. He left little notes on the floor, and cleaned out my bedroom closet, and never once questioned the things I had collected over the years. He made me breakfast. The eggs were cold. But the bacon was perfect.
The eggs were cold, but the bacon was perfect. The days were fine, but the evenings were fragile. The parties were long, but the walks home were lonely. And I'll never forget the day he left drunk and I had to carry his shoes. He never asked me once what I believed in. He always assumed that I would leave him. He was right to worry. He was wrong to believe it. No, I was too afraid.
My boy.
I have no doubt.
My boy will always love me.
