If I were

something

else

 

I’d be the bodyguard that protects me from me.

 

Walking three steps behind. Looking ten steps ahead.

 

Not everybody likes me.

 

I know that’s hard to believe. Strange as it may seem.

I don’t have it all together.

My allure is aloof

 

to some people.

 

Hard as I try,

I can’t bring a smile to every face.

 

There are people who don’t want me in their lives.

Who choose

every day

not to reach out.

 

And I know why.

 

My therapist says what I escaped was abuse.

And I can’t help but think of the blood on my own hands.

 

I’ve gotten so quiet these days.

More careful with the people I claim I love.

Pray they don’t smell guilt on my breath.

That my broken promises don’t poke through my teeth and scare them away too. 

 

He tells me he’s seen people about me too.

His emotionally stable friends describe me with the same technical terms.

​

Say distance is better.

Say our love would be safer in a coffin.

No one would blame him for putting me out of my misery

and letting dead things die.

 

My therapist says "abuse…"

and I say "perspective."

Wonder about the full story.

The inflections that shift me from abused to abuser.

 

Seems like every time I turn over my pillow there's another apology.

Can’t stop coughing up murder weapons.

​

Can they see the crime scenes behind my eyes?

Happy homes with windows I’ve thrown rocks through.

The ringing in my ears sounds like police sirens

and I don’t know if they’re coming to rescue or arrest me.

 

If my death would be one to mourn or celebrate.

 

My therapist calls it "abuse"

but the only hands I feel around my neck are my own.

Just the regret in retrospect.

Brushing through memories and still all I find is guilty.

All I find is apology.

No closure just closed case.

No freedom just felony.

​

No clarity’s angel. Just me behind bars.

​

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