I like to watch, when you’re eating, meeting with associates and ex-fiancées, and I wait for what you’ll do. You always do something next.
I kissed someone else. And any actual feeling which wasn’t a ploy was a willing casualty. And, the family you’re from, you better than anyone understand what compromise is: a daily occurrence, not a prison sentence because even they eventually end, mostly.
Months later, once you’ve fucked my friends and I, yours, when you’d think it too late to try you ask, “What if?” and the boyfriend box with your name on it which I loft-shoved, barely saved from setting light, changes status. Trinkets waning in and out of use.
Because we’ve fucked, fucked five years ago or four, you think my emotions are thread pickable, place-able like buses on timetables. But if someone asked which celebrity I’d most want to sleep with, all things considered, how would you answer?
And it’s not the not knowing. There are things I don’t know about you, like, how much Botox you’d have if cash wasn’t a motivator and who you think would win between Ben Affleck and Matt Damon and if you’ve swallowed bubblegum and who you’ve kissed since 1995 and when you last ate pesto.
It’s the levelling. The Top 5 lists and history-thickeners. Facts important as Bible passages, prayer beads and meditation outfits. The names of Jennifer’s unborn children.
You pick me when I’m not me – when you think I’m someone else completely. And I always pick you.
The problem is, who you fuck alters timelines, and you fucked in the wrong order. Her first.
You don’t know what I’ve given to god and the times I’ve given it up and how many times I’ve sworn to stop something for good. But I never do. And the mere promise of it – quitting – is enough to keep me conducting for my whole life which, if I’m lucky, lasts ’til 2062.
When I ask, assume it implies I’m not a let go, forget kind of a person, and I’ll want you when you don’t want me, won’t know how to shut off those feelings simply like closing kitchen cupboards to hide disorganised ingredients. Public opinion won’t change my mind about Tom Cruise, not when I’ve seen that method, logged that screen time. And you’ll plump up exactly when you should oven-sink.
And you should be a screen door settler, who I bar better than Columbus who didn’t discover anything evidently and thought he’d discovered something else entirely, and it’s the unexpected finds that foundation-fuck and undermine plans which you shouldn’t make unless you’re ready for a lesson in fate which doesn’t exist but you’d think it does going by every decision you did make and the unbuttered side of it as it gravel-scraped.
In another life, an actual one that a timeline is living out right now, adjacent to yours and simultaneously, this this this is. But not here.