Your mother really did a job on you,
said R, noting my panic
at unanswered text messages,
my tendency to think anyone
who didn’t respond
must be dead or disabled,
my inability to separate
feelings and actions
My cataclysmic thinking,
he called it
I understood why
he took off,
although it wouldn’t
have killed him
to say goodbye
I even understood
when he hooked up
with the girlfriend
of a younger friend
I don’t know what
bothered me most,
her age, or his betrayal
Wait a minute…
I’m lying again
I understood nothing
except his need to leave
once he recognized
the nature of the damage
He wrote me a letter,
said he’d call
Luckily, he never did
I might have answered
Love isn’t about bandages
or alcohol poured
into open wounds
It’s not even about
understanding
Just clean up your mess
and let others
inhale and exhale
without direction
or critique
Control your breaths
and leave everyone else
the fuck alone.
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