Why We Can’t Be Friends

maybe its stuck to your tongue.
maybe “hopefully we can”, someday,
just doesn’t do it.
my hair stands on end when i think
about your last words to me on the bus
at night
and i have to remember to breathe.

maybe when you were a vanilla boy,
and you liked to hold my heart
as though it were newborn
maybe when you were careful and calm
you might’ve seen or understood
that my veins don’t tend to strangle you
with my black days.

that i don’t pull out your teeth for fun.
that i’m still kissing you goodnight.
and if you had an ounce of good
left in you
then you wouldn’t have turned the key
in the lock
and gone on home.

we can’t be friends because
it would be like peeling off the earth’s skin
like wallpaper
and trying to paint it a solid colour
like cream or beige

we can’t be friends because
it would be like telling God
to grant me a mortgage on the universe
but have the universe
with walls and a roof, limited forever

and it would be like
tearing out the last 3 pages of cinderella
and never getting to wear the glass slipper yourself
it would be you
on top of me in bed
not being able to cum

time and time again
and telling yourself you can’t
rub yourself raw inside of me
and telling yourself this is how sex has come to be
and it would be listening to me
sob on the floor in the shower.

we can’t be friends because you made it that way.

this wasn’t love.

this was your idea of it.


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