I don’t like being

 

i don’t like being

the one with the box of bandaids

needles

and nails

sucking out your blood

putting an arm behind your head

so you don’t hit the hard

metal of my bed frame

 

repeating your name

 

i don’t like being

the one with a racing

worried chasing mind

tracing your words

peeking behind those syllables

to grasp just what

you

need

and

formulate it,

tie a ribbon

and deliver it

with candy words

for you to chew

 

i don’t like being

the one to worry

in bed

head never empty

even when i scoop out

the last of my consciousness,

because you remain there,

bare,

crouching in the dark

rocking back and forth

your spine hitting against

my skull

click, clack, click, clack

some things

i still lack

 

they will say to me

 

i don’t like seeing

myself this way

following a path that

closes in on my feet

with every beat

 

eyes blur because yours do

and the current grasps me

by the waist,

hollow chattering teeth

 

i don’t like it

but it’s also me

and not only you

but i like pointing fingers

and maybe i still need my mother to linger

to tell me to stop

because my heart is in

my hands,

not yours.

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