I toy with the idea of you in my bed.
I wonder if you’ve ever thought of me like that.
If you have and we’re on even footing
or you haven’t
and that makes me worse.
I’m killing you. I’m killing you.
I look you in the eyes while I break your heart
and the only kindness I give
is that afterwards I look away.

It felt pure to me when it started.
Real, like it probably is for other people.
I felt I had accomplished something,
that I wasn’t just useful.
you wanted to be my friend.

I worry kissing you would feel like
kissing my brother. I worry
if I tell you that
you’ll have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.
It makes me feel young, not in a good way.
Naive, clumsy, stumbling in the dark.
“how well do you think you know yourself?”
“not very well”.

I toy with the idea of you in my head.
Where you’re all mine. Where you can’t
do anything I don’t see coming.
Where I can put you back together
in a way that works for everyone.
In the real world I feel my insides rotting,
guilt from this and other things
curled up and writhing
like worms in my guts.
I didn’t do any tricks. I was honest. And here you are,
wanting what is real in me.
I can’t tell if I am afraid of something that real
or if I don’t want to give the real me to you.
What would be the point?
You already know too much.

I am a bad person.
Before this and because of this.
The moral betrayals orbiting each other in me
like binary stars.
I’m tempted to say
“it wasn’t supposed to be like this”,
but what authority do I have?

You listen when I speak.
You remember things about me.
You call me your best friend,
us best friends.