Just the doubt, you know, the
was it the monster, my monster,
if a monster can belong to anyone
except by eating them. Or was it my
in all its glory,
in its nothingness,
one of my transparent-translucent shimmery cameos:
spirit over the waters/man on the street?
Because we have married,
become one flesh,
wear the same size.
The monster and I, I mean—
before I knew you, always. Shit,
we dig the same soundtracks,
trade dirty emojis—all of it.
Yet are not the same.
And looking back on you and I,
because I love you now,
because I loved you then and love you
still and only and always will,
the sting of each mistake
trailing smoke behind us
that’s this body burning off–
I don’t know if it’s sad.
Some days I snapped at you and missed.
I have slept on my feet; lain alert.
And nearly, though I pray not yet,
lain waste—yes, me, with no monster to blame.
But there’s treasure in your neck, and I
will find it. There is a fire
in the afterlife, but it is
only a gate.