Oh, loyal friend, I should not begin an
ode Like this, without first explaining my
need to write these words. How much have I hurt
you? Let me count the ways.
In the spring of our lives, and likely until
Our dying days. Was not of malice, but
something so sick… The head, the mind, of a
bulimic, alcoholic, trauma sur-
Vivor; Poet gone awry; these are on-
ly excuses, mind you. The real fuck is
my inability to change, to feel
something other than pity in myself.
Even with our children, I declared my-
Self as suffering. Who is to know, the
truth. Defective mind, or lack of spine. And
does it even matter. I think it must,
But, you love me anyway, Even as
I fall off the deepest end, always fur-
ther, and in the wrong direction from you.
From us. Our kids. Why can’t I get it right,
after all these 19 years. A lifetime together.
Of you holding me up. Me running away,
and drowning, in self pity and tears.
