Relapse
We could talk like friends,
who never went through a period of not speaking.
We could make fun of each other and laugh,
like two people that never experienced tension.
We could even be flirtatious and routinely touching
or making eyes in a way that would appear harmless,
now that it wasn’t the kind of betrayal that ended lives.
I WAS FINE.
I could see you without suffering
and even watch you kissing her without feeling wild
or capable of murder.
I was proud of myself.
This was evidence of progress and possibly a monumental step
in some overrated program where I’d receive
a round of applause and full support,
maybe a pin for being clean for a month.
Now I know what people mean
when they say that sex changes everything,
because it does.
The first time around,
I went to great lengths for recovery.
I joined a support group for addiction
and went to a psychologist from school
I stopped seeing
after she called you a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I tried Prozac for a few months
then went to an out of state college for two years,
I just finished.
I must have written a manuscript of poems
and wrapped my mouth around a hundred bottles
trying to skip a stage of grief or cheat the process.
Every exertion was a waste, now I know that
only time can effect change
but it won’t stop me from trying.
Everyone knows that being friends
with someone you have feelings for
is emotional suicide, but
I WAS FINE!
It may have never left as a whole, but it was receding.
We were cool and I was letting go,
but in a single night you let me know that I was lying to myself
and FOR WHAT!?
What is it about sex that invokes ownership?
What about our actions made me think
I could influence your heart?
I knew I would have to sit back and watch
you love someone else, again.
I said that in a card and you couldn’t argue on the phone,
but I didn’t expect it would happen this soon or be nearly as bad.
Did you imagine I would be mature and happy for you, like a friend?
You thought we were fine, but we only meant you as I began to relapse.
I know it’s a selfish thought
but I think of your new lover’s hands, exploring your body
then rolling over to the left side of your bed
and I want to die.
I want to be the victim to some terrible accident or senseless crime,
to be removed from this place.
I bought a pint of Southern Comfort
and spent half the night with my head in the toilet,
thinking, this scene is SO four years ago
but feeling exactly the same.
