well i guess i found my match, lit it and went up in flames.

I suppose I should have enjoyed it
when he called me baby, put his hand
on my thigh but you were all I could
think about. You drove me home,
clutched my hand the whole time
as if it was impossible to think of even
letting me go. I could feel the reluctance
jam against my fingers.

I suppose I should have enjoyed it
when he struggled to get my clothes off, all the
shit
fuck
damn
and the metal bed frame smacking the wall,
our skin slamming together in a classic fight
for dominance but you were all I could think
about. This was not slow, coincidental or
innocent and I’m afraid that I’m much more
determined to distance myself than you first
imagined.

We can’t even look at each other now.
I stare down at the concrete or take out my phone,
my preoccupation almost convincing but not quite.
I remember when you restored my faith in a
decaying and meaningless institution, revived
childish dreams of suburban houses and minivans.

But I went back to him and continued the fight
against monogamy, the war against your indecision
even though I’m sure you never recognized
all the bombs dropped, all the small battles riddled
with passive aggressive sparring.

I lined that dream up with its face to the wall
and shot it down like a prisoner of war when
stumbling out of his room became a common
occurrence. The shame clawed at the back of
my brain but it’s too late to stop now, because
I’m not the marrying kind.