One day my mother went through my garbage and thought I was doing a bottle drive.
Because “bottle drive” is a lot easier to explain than “I’ve been drunk every night since I wasn’t
enough to keep him sober” I left the trash bag in my room for two weeks.
When I couldn’t sleep I’d empty it onto my floor and study the labels.
Tried to reach back into my brain and pull out the memories of what we had in common.
Jack and Jim went up to him and told him not to love me.
Six beers told him that distance was too hard.
Held us by the throat.
Miles hung over our heads like the blade of a guillotine.
There is so much space between us but no room for mistakes
and I am a messy drunk.
I fall down a lot.
It is hard to drive five hours to pick someone up off the floor but I wanted more
than to wake up to that message on my machine singing wish you were here.
We have bellies full of beer.
We have bellies full of coal.
We talk about killing each other when the pain doesn’t go away
in the morning.
He gets quiet before saying that he would kill me first and then
I don’t answer because I would have placed my lips on his,
one finger on the trigger, one hand soft on his neck.
I would have shot us both
through the back of my head because if the grim reaper
comes to take my love away, he’s gonna have to go through me.
Instead I say this:
“I love you too much to ever think about you dying”