I Need You to Not Leave Me.

I Need You to Not Leave Me.

I sat on your low, golden vintage velvet couch,
made by people with no regard for human anatomy,
and cried.
Knotty blond bed head,
slouchy black beanie,
words backed up in my throat,
like I’ve swallowed a whole loaf of bread,
and have no water to wash it down.

Bloodshot, sleepless eyes push out tears,
streaming violently down my cheeks,
as I hold the ends of your adopted shrunken black sweater
in my fists.
Attempting to hide,
I cover my hands,
then bury them in my lap.
You catch my crying stiffly,
speechlessly.

Repeatedly, you ask me,
“Honey, are you alright?”

Where could I even start?
A lifetime of dark, tar-ish sludge
lives beneath my skin,
so much now,
that if you cut me,
I bleed black.
How can I say that I want to spare you
from all of this ugly,
from all the parts I mistakenly thought I killed off and buried?