I wanted to (a poem)

I want you to say I’m good enough,

my efforts are seen,

the sheen on my forehead from the sweat I worked up making you happy is worth it.

I want you to look my way,

for your eyes to snag on me

like the zipper of my new duvet that I can’t close, no matter how hard I try.

I want you

to know, when you say it’s just like riding a bike

that I’ve forgotten something fundamental,

that I’ve tried to fill in this gap

left by the tooth I chipped when we thought we heard a ghost

and you ran away so fast, your lungs burnt

like the ash from your cigarette that ate a hole in my coat before you rounded the corner and ducked out of sight while my feet slipped

in slow motion

on something wet, slimy, and cold

like the ice I used to try and freeze my brain to bring down the swelling and drown out the pain as I fell

with nothing to hold onto.

My face went first, and the world flew past,

eyes squeezed shut, bracing for an impact that would

surely, undoubtedly, undeniably, be my last.

But I still want you

when I can’t get out of my bed or my own way,

when I’m begging you to turn left, to take that exit, to find that pit stop, to take a deep breath

inhale the stale garbage, and rub the gasoline off your palms, and onto your stupid fucking khakis

what I mean is:

get off the highway and try my way instead.

I want you

to hear me

even when I can’t say something nice, so I say nothing at all.

I just think it so loud,

it blasts past my mouth,

and into my foundation.

It’s acid engraving the stone,

it won’t stop eating, devouring, consuming before

purging to feast once more as you backtrack, back pedal, back away, stay still, stay right where

I want you

when I forget, there are no days off

and that my absentee ballot still has to be hand-delivered with a lengthy, heartfelt apology

or that the fantasy I wove over reality has been fraying ever since you told me that

I was the best you ever had

but you didn’t want that anymore

and thought I just couldn’t perform

the right way,

or say the right things,

and that I never tried to please you when that was all I ever really tried to do,

until you politely informed me that I’d failed;

there was no redemption arc for me; I’d flunked this class.

My exposition was too slow, too pretentious, too wordy,

my character development was in the gutter,

and I couldn’t be bothered with a single redeeming quality.

That’s when you looked me in the eyes,

the same eyes shut tight, clinging to denial with all their might, and you actually apologized

not for the lies you told me, but for the lies you didn’t mean to tell yourself

but the truth was, there was no way in hell I would ever be

good enough.

And even then, I want you to know

that if it’s true what they say about doing what you love

then,

I never loved you

but fuck

I wanted to.