I guess I’m done asking myself
the why’s around
why this grew up to be
a house of silence
screaming death rattles
and the occasional
spilled wine glass.
If you don’t know by now
that’s part of the reason
All the things I think you think we think
are buried under the couch cushions
with the lost change and
backs of earrings I told myself
“someday I’ll fish those out,”
“it’s not too late to start again,”
“I can’t undo what we–”
I would rather have you to hate than not.
I would rather be the one with the noose in the corner,
next to the ferns and family photos.
I wonder if I’m just staying until I can say
it’s all your fault,
walk away with Billy The Kid explosions
burning hot into the back of my freshly ironed shirts.
I don’t leave because I’m not the bad guy.
I can’t work on being good to you anymore.
I won’t act like you’re okay.
I guess I don’t know how to learn to live this lie.