Every man I’ve ever been with is like my father.
I just never know how until it ends.
And you are no exception.
And you are selfish.
And you have more faces than you let on.
And you use and use and think only about yourself.
And you’re gentle.
And the slime in you is sneaky.
I recognize it, like I always do,
just too late.

I want to tell you
that I’m not toothless, I’m merciful.
I want to tell you
that I’m angry and hurt
but not surprised.
I want to grab your face
and take and take and think only about myself.
Siphon the heat from your body,
make it my own and shove fistfuls in my pockets
for the cold October walk home.
But I don’t.

This is always how the story would have ended.
We’ve been over since the start. I am so old now
and I see cracks showing like spiderwebs
and see the light of the sun coming up
but I still stay curled up next to you
because I am a hungry person.
I have been my whole life
and your hand feeds me
and I can’t make myself
get up and leave.

Your pulse under my hands,
something alive with me
up close and personal. I am a monster,
not the way you’re a monster. I’m cold
and half dead and you’re bright
like a fire in the hearth and sweet
like fruit just barely not rotten.
So alive, so alive right next to me.
You’re a monster cause you’re human
and I am because I’m not.

Every man is like my father.
and worst of all
so am I. drunken and pacified.
fading into ages older and older,
not doing what I said I would.
not trusting, not hoping, not sleeping.
can you blame me? for wanting you
and your trust and hope and heat
and to be pulled down to bed
and into sleep by you.
you can. I can.