by You Have My Word
I am the mental hospital that hoards the crazy of your love. It’s out of control, trying to be controlled in here. So wild our memory locks jam and we forget words but hum along anyway to the lyrics of “rescue me”. I don’t remember. I don’t remember the unlove before you walked through creaky doors admitted for the asylum kind of “be with me forever”.
Can’t be fixed – these pieces of me I thought I knew – you knew – and you came stumbling through. So I gave you my hand so you wouldn’t fall. I gave you a little – that which I had – and you took it all, like hungry primary school taste bud tongues and eager minds for something more than drum lessons into life lines.
White ward coat me, like wanton fantasies and I can’t get enough of you before bed time. They’ll drag us apart just for the night and tomorrow we will have to find each other again because I am only these four walls that keep the crazy kind of I-could-kill-you love, in.
So, in the morning when you wake like a liquor lined violin and play drunken fool with too much beard and not enough bravery sing me a memory, not a serenade or a sad song of I-wish-we’d-never-happened-so-“goodbye”. Rather punch cage through lips, past ribs, and rip bits of me from toe tips. Stitch up and drink up piles of prescription; medication not enough to fix the broken parts of you in me.
They say “wishful thinking” like it’s a bad thing. Like the perfect fusion of lock-up ward and borderline sanity would cripple hearts. But here we are: outside of stethoscope clasp, we will dance heavy haunted hallways and light chambers up – quarantined passions that can no longer be contained we will. Through elevator skeptics we will glass door shut their mouths so we can still see through their eyes the jealousy that drives each stone throw, to glass house. We are safe inside.
Outside, upside-down. Don’t you know, you can’t hug barbed wire expecting it to fold you in safe, hold you, braced? Hold me. Straight jacket me. Will you just hold me down. Don’t sit down. Chase me down. Downward spiral with me. Crazy.
You are a different shade of therapy case – greater capacity for loving me… and baggage. Scan code emotions in, and leave the case at the door. Take your shoes off too so you tread carefully on me when you do, and you will, and you have and there are footprints on my hands from when I reached out to touch you, and stomp, stomp, stamp! You took my desperation for a cheap thrill, another replacement pill and crunched fingers to broken bones like you will do to my heart.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the lab-scan, x-ray, black and white, see-through love. I’m sorry for the prod, poke, check pulse, are you alive love. I’m sorry for the operate, medicate, check-up date love and I never came back to see if we were healed. But I will not apologise for pain, for I have learned the good in walking with it. Splint. Stitch.
We just haven’t enough time yet to transplant some organ love that will live longer, love, than you my love. They draw curtains around your bed, while I’m drawing black pen hearts in the margins of your will. I’m waiting in the waiting room, love. The doctor has no diagnosis yet for the unstitch, clinic-linen bed-disease of you and me. I’m waiting and we have no cure for this insatiable fit me together and fix me feeling. Breathe.