Another Thing I’ll Admit

The first few days,
I tried to promise myself with a chain-link lie that I wouldn’t like you more than you liked me.
Maybe at that point it would’ve been more like a successful personality possibility to hear you say “I love you more” consistently,
and dang I know that sounds so manipulative,
but after less than two weeks I superglue-snapped back into mostly one piece in mostly the right places and now I’m stuck realizing that we word our worries in exactly the same fractured phrases, stuck thinking
that identical puzzle pieces rarely fit together right and I’m scared to see my fear in your eyes because I don’t want you to understand–
because I don’t want you to be paralyzed by the future price, the forced confrontation with complications in compilations of compliantly aligning possibilities of endings, and I don’t want you to leave me, and honestly,

I was embarrassingly
freaked out all last week
because of the technical potential for a breakup text to deliver
while my phone was on airplane mode and I wouldn’t know and I’d be there thinking about you like a freaking fool and

it’s not that I think you’d do that.
It’s more that
my brain is in a bar fight with every body part,
pulling my fingernails to curl tighter into my palms,
pulling for the violent team
to win in an absolute beatdown, pulling for breakdowns,
pulling for stains
while pulling at hair
while pointing out
how my tracks are always circular,
how I’m not running anywhere different,
how I stare at scenery like it’s more fragile than lamp posts
in a world of phone glows,
poets
in a stretch of singers and drinkers and bruising down-beaters and
a worrier who worries that I spend too much time worrying and too little time telling that with you it feels like maybe at least my heart doesn’t hate me,
like maybe my head has a few less victories,
like maybe though it’s outweighed and outrun and out-matched and out-won
and worn out,
this sense just might know what it’s talking about.

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