You Wouldn’t Really Love Me

You wouldn’t stand around and watch me tear up the carpet and paint the ceiling and rip out my hair and scratch my arms. You will leave if I quit taking my pills, or if I take them all at once. If I scream and whisper or walk down the street in the middle of the night or sit in my cold bath too long, you will say, “To hell with this,” you will stop praying to God for me and you will go pray to an institution. You will stop picturing me smiling in the sun and you will leave. If I can push you away hard enough. “I hate you,” I say, “and your dog and your dad and your friends and your job.” You wouldn’t stay and listen, because that would be too much. Far too much for you to bear. And finally, when you are gone, my antics will never ever be able to hurt you again. You will be free.

But you’re still here, on the other end of the tin can phone. You still knock on the door frame, 2 knocks for “sweet dreams,” and you trudge up the stairs to bed. You sound so tired. You had a sandwich for supper, and you made me one too. Your best friend’s getting married tomorrow. We were meant to go. But then there was me. You cancelled your trip and your plans and your future. And you’re still here, at the top of the stairs. Tomorrow and the next day and the next. And I realize with horror that you really will love me no matter what.