On our fifth day of texting,
you mention a wedding
in which I am your bride.
In the middle of the night, something falls
from the ceiling and hits me in the face.
It’s a party favor that says MRS.&MRS.
I put it in a drawer with all the other
expectations I can never live up to.
We haven’t discussed who takes
which name, or where to put the hyphen.
Where’s this going?
You ask me about the status
of my womb. I tell you I can never
have children and you sigh with relief.
Tell me that it’s good
that we don’t want a family.
I wonder who “we” is
and when I became a part of it.
In my peripheral,
I see you signing a deed
that makes you the partial owner
of my lower half.
I should know better.
The ending is always the same.
I know the story:
We meet.
You tell me I’m different.
I bat my eyelashes
and act like I’ve never heard that before.
I start to think you’re the only person
who has ever thought I was wonderful.
I start to think you’re the only person
who could ever love me.
I examine your disadvantages
to see how well they fit into mine.
I list my conditions
to try to find your deal breaker,
because I will want out before you do
and I need to know where to step.
We meet and within one month,
you are writing down my assignment,
you are giving me a new name,
you are taking my eternity into your hands,
and then snuffing it out.
You tell me I’m smarter,
and more beautiful,
and less trouble
than anyone else you’ve ever known,
and I say you too, you too, you too
because I’m already scared
to live with or without you
even though you don’t actually know me yet.
You love the way I make you feel
about yourself
and now I’m sick at the idea of
not being the mirror you look into.
I want to tell you that
I’m nobody’s future wife,
I’m nobody’s church or scripture,
I’m nobody’s mother
bringing in a bedtime story
and a syringe with medicine.
I am not a rehabilitation center
that takes you through a twelve-step
program. I cannot house those amends.
There is no compartment within my body
that you can reach no matter how blessed
your fingers are that has the answer
you’re looking for. The empty side
of my bed is not a hospital.
I type all of this out,
my miserable confession,
that will leave you in despair
and immediately seeking a replacement,
but I don’t hit send.
Instead, I keep filing my good morning
with you while you bombard me
with promise after promise.
To offer an explanation,
I take words like lovebomb
gaslight out of my pocket,
but they have lost their meaning.
I will keep being available
until my identity is just
a contact in my phone
that rings indefinitely.
I’m worried someday,
I will lose my meaning, too
if I don’t stop saying yes
when I really mean no,
if I don’t stop saying I love you,
when I really mean: please, get some help.
Photo by mokhalad musavi on Unsplash
Angel Rosen
Angel Rosen is a poet living near Pittsburgh. She can be found at open mic nights, drag shows or writing poetry in the dark. She is passionate about mental health, queer friendship, and Amanda Palmer's art community. Her writing can be found at angelrosen.com.
