Our Spot

I just wanted to say I love you

for that night.

For bearing with me as I bore into yur arms


taking in shallow breaths of panic

in the passanger seat of your car

in a murky parking lot I call:

"Our spot".


I love you for the mango fruit juice 

you let me finish after you

beause I was too weak to eat something that same day


I love you for driving me home,

when home felt like the only place

in that moment of uncertantity and anxiety


I refused to consume those orange pill buds

and have you watch me become

who I was too afraid to show you.


But it was you,

and only you,

sitting down on that

brown, lumpy suken sofa

that helped me realize that there was

nothing to be afraid of anymore.


I am still sorry for that day.

I felt I had wasted your time,

begged for your attention 

and nagged for your presense


beause in a blink of an eye,

it is time to hit the road

and go back to the place

that has me hooked on those small pills

to begin with.


Sometimes I think to myself


that you do not care

for me the way I 

care for you,

but then I remember that you 

would not put up with

what I put down in front of you

if you did not want me back.


The push is easier than the pull,

but I am learning to trust more,

because I love the feeling of believing you when

you tell me you love me.


And I think back to that day,

in the passanger seat of you car

in "Our spot",

when I was detached from myself,

and you reattached me.


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