177 Miles of This

You always do this.

Call me in that softened voice,
like maybe hell froze over,
like maybe this time you won’t use my hope
as a floor mat.

You makes a whole little event out of it.
A tone.
A pause.
A fake opening in the door.

Then I step through
and there it is again:

the jab,
the correction,
the reminder
that I should not get too comfortable
thinking I matter.

You called me to announce
somebody was out of the picture
like I was supposed to celebrate,
like I was supposed to hear
your heart unlocking.

Then you acted surprised
I wasn’t happier.

Happier for what?
You never pick me.
You barely even speak to me
like you like me.

That’s what really guts me.

Not even the rejection.
Not even the next girl.
Just the way you stand there
with kindness in your pocket
and look me in the face
like I have not earned any.

I sent you ten pictures.

Ten.

Do you know how insane it is
to make somebody dig that hard
for one sincere word?

I look better than I ever have.
I know it.
Other people know it.
People passing by know it.
My hair gets complimented by strangers
and all you can drag out of yourself
is fine.

Fine.

Like I asked how the drywall looked.
Like I was a beige waiting room.
Like I mailed you ten photographs
of a fucking appliance.

You withhold compliments
like they’re state secrets.
Like if you tell me I’m beautiful
the sky will split open
and expose some weakness in you
you’d rather die than admit.

So instead
you ration tenderness
like a prison guard with a grudge.

You say you’ll be there for me.
You say you’re not going anywhere.
You say you want to help me through this.

Then I tell you something real
and somehow I leave feeling crazier,
needier, uglier for having said it.

That part is almost art.

How I can hand you my actual pain
and you hand back
a version of me
that sounds impossible to love.

I make a joke out of fear,
you correct it.
I tell you I’m hurting,
you minimize it.
I tell you I’m scared,
you talk to me
like my anxiety is some embarrassing hobby
I should have outgrown by now.

You do this thing
where you act concerned
while putting me down sideways,
which is honestly
a nasty little talent.

And I hate that I still go soft for it.
I hate that I still hear the first warm note
in your voice
and come closer.

Because every time
I think maybe today
you’ll just be gentle.

Maybe today
you’ll say I look beautiful.
Maybe today
you’ll act like the 177 miles matter.
Maybe today
you’ll understand that wanting to drive all that way
just to hug you
is not casual.
It is not small.
It is not something everybody gets.

But you act like my care
is this embarrassing little animal
that followed you home
and keeps scratching at the door.

You say it would wreck you
if I ever disappeared,
but you speak to me
like I’m a burden with a ringtone.

Like answering me
is a favor.
Like my feelings are clutter.
Like my love is something you have to step around
on your way to whoever’s making eyes at you now.

And there is always someone, isn’t there?

Somebody in the background.
Some new audience.
Some new girl who gets your sweetness
while I get the lecture,
the distance,
the toned-down contempt,
the fun little implication
that I’m difficult to love.

You make me feel
like I should apologize
for needing tenderness
from someone who swears she cares about me.

That’s what’s so sick about it.

You do not hit hard enough
for me to call it cruelty out loud.
You just keep your foot
lightly on my throat
and then act confused
when my voice sounds strained.

You call me rigid.
You call me too much.
You hint that I’m not open-minded,
that I butt heads,
that I focus on the wrong things.

Meanwhile I have spent my whole life
loving wounded people.
Meanwhile I have bent until it felt like virtue.
Meanwhile you are the one
who cannot seem to say one nice thing to me
without acting like it would bankrupt you.

That’s the saddest part.

Not even that you hurt me.
Not even that you freeze me out
when something could be fixed.
Not even that I already know
how this story keeps going.

It’s that some wrecked part of me
still wants your voice to turn gentle
and stay there.

It’s that I still want you
to look at me
the way strangers do for free.

It’s that I know exactly
what you’re going to do next.

You’ll pick your new girl.
You’ll tell me about her.
Why she’s easier.
Why she’s better.
Why she fits in your hands
without asking them to be gentle.

And I will sit there again,
quiet as a kicked dog,
feeling every kind thing
you refused to say to me
rise in my throat
like blood.

That’s it, really.

Not that you had no kindness.

Just that you always seemed
to keep the blade side of it
for me.