You are a liar.
I’d love to warn those who love you all about your demons, past and present.
But the problem is,
I don’t know which ones are real and which you made up in your head.
I’ve been trying to make an appointment
with your new girlfriend but,
she’s booked for the next nine months or so.
Until she meets your demons and her anxiety forces her out of your arms.
Or until you get bored with her complacency.
You love a girl who fights back.
But nine months from now,
I’ll have lost interest and she will already know
what I wish I could tell her.
Maybe it’s what my therapist calls my “codependent tendencies,”
but I just wish I could save her.
I want her to know she’s worthy of the kind of love you will never be able to give.
That there is nothing wrong with the way she walks, laughs, or sits.
I want her to speak her dreams in every language she knows, without feeling insecure.
She’s probably a lot like me, or at least a lot like how I used to be.
Our type is your easiest target.
Naked and afraid.
Damaged and insecure.
You lick our wounds and cover them with bandages.
Only they never heal.
The salt from your venom inflames them
each time you speak.
And for nine months, we carry around this pain
like an unwanted child.
Feeling every kick, every punch.
Patiently awaiting the epidural so
we no longer have to feel.
If I hadn’t already spent so much time
getting to know your soul,
although I’m convinced you don’t have one,
I would be a beggar.
I’d plead her case, be her defense attorney.
I would look you square in the eyes in an open courtroom,
just to show the world what a criminal you are.
But, if it would go anything like real life,
just like they did for OJ, the jury would let you walk.
Once again, the judicial system has failed me.
So, I just pray she makes it out alive.
I pray you don’t crush her soul
the way you did mine.
But my prayers will fall on deaf ears because, according to you,
there is no God.
I just hope you’re wrong.
If I were a beggar, I’d ask you to soften your voice.
I’d beg you to spend less time correcting her outfit
and more time correcting your behavior.
I’d plead with you to help her reach her dreams
without overshadowing them with your own.
I’d cry to you to stop forcing yourself on her,
just because you think she’s your property.
I don’t know if you’ve ever played Monopoly but,
you can’t actually buy a piece of property without an investment.
You have no money and she has no doors.
I beg you to treat her like a human being.
I would beg you to avoid saying
“I love you.”
We both know you are incapable of the feelings
behind that sentiment.
But if you say it loud enough,
she’ll believe you.
Don’t let her believe you.
I know you think you’re above her.
That’s part of what comes with having a scrotum.
Let me remind you that, on paper, you’re missing a
very important pair.
I’ll let you borrow my anatomy textbook if you
promise to let her read it.
If I was one to beg, which I’m not,
I’d ask you to look in the mirror.
Your mother would stare back at you.
But she’d tell you you’re doing everything right so…
Actually, avoid all glass objects.
I beg you not to look at your reflection or use them
as weapons to throw at her.
I can’t beg.
I won’t beg.
This is all hypothetical.
But, for the rest of my life,
every time a new woman knocks on your door
I’m going to wonder.
Is she going to be the one?
Is she going to be the one that finally makes him snap?
Will she show up on my doorstep in nine months?
with a black eye and a positive pregnancy test and
nowhere to go?
September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April…
There’s a knock on my door.
Come in, sister.
It’s cold outside.
Don’t worry, he doesn’t have a key
Maybe I can beg.
If only to ask you to just give it up.
To accept what I’ve diagnosed you with,
to swear off women and abuse yourself instead.
I’ll beg as loud as I know how from the rooftops,
knowing you can’t hear me.
You always turn the volume down
when a woman is speaking.