When I tell people who don’t know you about the first time I met you and the ways our lives for a decade had danced around the inevitability of an US how my supposed former, maybe one time future sister wife is touted as the “good” version of me- the nicer version…
What does that even mean?
When I tell them I iced my soul to keep it alive for you,
Then set the house on fire to get warm.
I watched the burning the embers and wondered why it didn’t feel like a loss at all.
When the bank teller tells me she isn’t my friend,
When my friends stop telling me anything,
When I no longer know how to make friends and wonder why I feel weird in a crowd.
When the ice breaks, the bough from which it hung comes loose and I am undone-
Does this mean I died and nobody bothered to tell me?
At the funeral I so frequently imagine now, I see my parents, but mainly just their disapproval of me.
I see my once former husband honestly scared to say it, but so glad to be rid of me.
I cannot see my children there, I am sure its because the thought of leaving them like this is more than my heart can bare.
But something, somewhere stops me..
Did I tell them about the laughter that rang out in a hotel room? 
That we had to be pried apart, that we our bodies fused into each other and he took all the orgasms with him.
Will they understand that for me, loving was never a matter of choice?
I would not have chosen, I could not have dared.
I did not know I couldn’t logic it away – There was no casualty to be spared.
Will I tell them that my base Chakra is alive with your cells, that from that a burning born inside my Solar Plexus calls out to yours, and you feel it too?
