One Year Ago

One year ago, I was living in Central Islip, Long Island.
I had left my friends in New York City
because they were starting to scare me.
Scare me with intimacy, scare me with responsibility,
scare me with the thought that they would never leave.
And because they wouldn't leave, I drove them away.
I drove them away because I can't stop
loving change
loving someone different.


I turned to someone "authentic," someone from the city,
a girl with a brooklyn accent,
a girl with brooklyn ties,
a girl with brooklyn hate.

When that didn't work out as well as I had planned,
I turned to someone else:
she could make me laugh,
she could turn my mornings into something more,
she could make me think about being a father,
she could make me realize that though this may be the last night of my life,
she could make it better.

Oddly, it turned out she lied to me.

Just as I had lied to my friends,
to my family,
to my present love,
to everyone.

This is my lie:
I'm someone you can trust
I'm someone you can believe in
I'm someone who is different
I'm someone who is empathetic
I'm someone who is there
I'm someone who cares.

Here is the truth:
I'm scared.
Of you.
You.

Fear can't be fixed:
I'm frightened of you.
I love you so much,
I'm terrified.