The elastic on the edge of my skin has come loose with you
calling me up at midnight,
the human punching bag in the moonlight
puking up words we exchanged
when I was worse and you were better.
This is not a love letter:
this is an eviction notice.
If no one ever tells me any differently I will always believe
that it is my fault
when the fine lines on my face crack
and my teeth shift back to crooked:
I was never meant to be beautiful.
And yet when you call
you always mean to find me in good graces,
a smiling face,
a lace dress and white teeth and no chase.
But I am not a band aid.
I am not an encyclopedia with the answers to your problems
spelled out in alphabetical order
with full-color illustrations.
I am an invitation
to crawl from one end of your bed to another.
I am not a friend or a lover,
just a deadly series of bumps
on the road to getting better
and your feelings might change with the weather
but I will not.
I am worse than you thought.
Do not call me fighting -
none of this is my fault.