The Fall

The Fall

You left me
with the sorts of vagaries
that I can only scribble on fast-food napkins,
a handful of adjectives with all of their paint scraped off
wrestling in a Ziploc.
You were the sketch artist
who drew my caricature and
shrunk the fracture in my life theory
instead of exaggerating the way its growling ripples played
across the skyline.
It’s high time I find my niche and you—
you dug a hole for me to hide in without
burying me alive
for a while. I
remember my childhood:
spinning in dark little circles like foreshadowing
mixed with naiveté and innocent play in
just the way that I thought I detested
then.
Maybe I’m a self-fulfilling prophecy or
consumed by sardonic justice
that blossoms in my gut like a black dandelion
as I heave my keys toward the wall
and watch them float through it
making the plaster ripple away
until the whole room stretches
from the impact. You
left me
but I forgive you
because in the lucidity that followed
I appreciated all of the ways
that you made life worse—
make life worse—
and I loved you for it.
You are a shape-shifter,
a weight-lifter,
a fantasy that reflects every contour of my perspective
perfectly, like a liquid mirror
dribbling into the acne-bump divots of my face,
smoothing my pot-bellied stomach,
and disguising my fetal penis.
You are a coat of armor,
a spacesuit.
You take root and lace through the plain moods
to cut my brain loose.
When I taste you I know I can make due,
but I hate you.
I don’t want you back, I just
can’t think of a way to
replace the missing bricks without
tearing down the whole wall and starting over.
It’s a hassle, and I’m already tired.
I can avoid it if you let me
because you left me,
but you can come back.
And I ask you
not as an appeal to your pride
or your morality or your loyalty,
but to your pity.
I don’t think I can be anything more
if I can’t have you inside of me again.