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You told me it was my fault you dropped out of college.

Admittedly, yes, I was trying to kill myself

(and why you decided say that to a suicidal girl, I still don’t know),

But it was the first item on a long list of ‘my fault.’

Maybe on some level, you knew you could get away with it,
Because I also think global warming and obesity rates and drivers who don’t use turn signals are my fault.

You were always your own hero, and in your mystical double-think, you were self-sacrificing and entitled to my sacrifice.

Sacrifice: “The act of slaughtering an animal as an offering to God.”

…I suppose I did make you into a God, and I thought you could find happiness if only, if only you weren’t tethered to—this broken thing—anymore.

I’m not sure what the Indiana Jones in this extended metaphor is—that thing that swooped in and saved me from my sacrifice in the last seconds. I do remember watching that movie, so much we could quote it, and because of that, your parents believed that we actually watched it instead of having sex in the living room.

Oh lord, did we have sex.

Do you remember the time that redneck blocked us in and left his brights trailed on us for an hour, and we were too scared to move? Or the all-body sunburn from that time in the ocean? You never blamed me for those.

I’m not sure when it was—before we got engaged, I know—that I knew on some level we wouldn’t work. But if I forced us both into that mould, we would learn to fit, I knew it, and we would be happy, like we were that day when you carried me into the ocean.

After I left, you told my mother—why her, I still don’t know—told her it was my fault you wanted to kill yourself. And how could I leave you when it was all my fault?

She said to you—and she said it so quiet and angry you turned white—she said to you, that if I tried any harder to force our mould to work, I’d be dead within three years. That’s what moulds do—they suffocate. Or, since I’m impatient, it would probably—explode.

You hated me talking like that. The cutting especially. You used to make me repeat, “I’m beautiful and I deserve to live.” On some level you thought, if I said it enough, I would fit into that little box.

I don’t know when we started looking at each other like cast-iron instead of people.

When I gave you back the ring, you cried and said, “Don’t hurt yourself over this. It’s not your fault.” I finally believe you. Love doesn’t fit into heart-shaped boxes. And if I fall outside those boxes—it’s not my fault.

If you drop out of college—it’s not my fault.

If what I am is more whisky than chocolate, it’s not my fault.

It’s not my…fault.

And I think that’s why you yelled so much—on some level, you knew that, too.

Description
You told me it was my fault you dropped out of college.

Admittedly, yes, I was trying to kill myself

(and why you decided say that to a suicidal girl, I still don’t know),

But it was the first item on a long list of ‘my fault.’

Maybe on some level, you knew you could get away with it,
Because I also think global warming and obesity rates and drivers who don’t use turn signals are my fault.

You were always your own hero, and in your mystical double-think, you were self-sacrificing and entitled to my sacrifice.

Sacrifice: “The act of slaughtering an animal as an offering to God.”

…I suppose I did make you into a God, and I thought you could find happiness if only, if only you weren’t tethered to—this broken thing—anymore.

I’m not sure what the Indiana Jones in this extended metaphor is—that thing that swooped in and saved me from my sacrifice in the last seconds. I do remember watching that movie, so much we could quote it, and because of that, your parents believed that we actually watched it instead of having sex in the living room.

Oh lord, did we have sex.

Do you remember the time that redneck blocked us in and left his brights trailed on us for an hour, and we were too scared to move? Or the all-body sunburn from that time in the ocean? You never blamed me for those.

I’m not sure when it was—before we got engaged, I know—that I knew on some level we wouldn’t work. But if I forced us both into that mould, we would learn to fit, I knew it, and we would be happy, like we were that day when you carried me into the ocean.

After I left, you told my mother—why her, I still don’t know—told her it was my fault you wanted to kill yourself. And how could I leave you when it was all my fault?

She said to you—and she said it so quiet and angry you turned white—she said to you, that if I tried any harder to force our mould to work, I’d be dead within three years. That’s what moulds do—they suffocate. Or, since I’m impatient, it would probably—explode.

You hated me talking like that. The cutting especially. You used to make me repeat, “I’m beautiful and I deserve to live.” On some level you thought, if I said it enough, I would fit into that little box.

I don’t know when we started looking at each other like cast-iron instead of people.

When I gave you back the ring, you cried and said, “Don’t hurt yourself over this. It’s not your fault.” I finally believe you. Love doesn’t fit into heart-shaped boxes. And if I fall outside those boxes—it’s not my fault.

If you drop out of college—it’s not my fault.

If what I am is more whisky than chocolate, it’s not my fault.

It’s not my…fault.

And I think that’s why you yelled so much—on some level, you knew that, too.