Tomorrow is Tuesday, so I already know you’ll be feeling extra down
because it’s the anniversary of your goldfish Barry’s death
and although even your little sister has moved on,
you still insist on holding a memorial service in his fishtank every year.
I know that tomorrow you won’t get out of bed all day,
and you’ll be in one of those blue moods that lasts for hours
when the rest of your family will only be mildly sad, but only
for around five minutes or so, then they’ll forget all about Barry.
Last night you came home from the bar and sat on my bed, hungover,
wasted after having unprotected sex with three women
in one evening, but then one of them mentioned
that you looked too angry when you were inside her
so you immediately pulled out and spent the rest of the night
moping alone at the counter with a Bloody Mary,
but I forgive you like I always do
for fucking other women on impulse, since you’ve done it so many times
and I know it’s just a part of your diagnosis.
Sometimes you feel things so acutely
that I’m afraid of even touching you on the shoulder
for fear you might lash out; you’ve told me you feel
like a failure countless times, a reject, worthless.
When I kiss you on the rainy nights
you always kiss me back harder, so hard our teeth clash,
bite my lip til you draw blood.
Sometimes you adore me and bring home a dozen white roses
or text me e.e. cummings poems at work,
take me out to dinner at fancy restaurants and repeat I love you,
I do, twenty times over in one day; other times
you can hardly even stand to look me in the eye,
won’t even sleep in the same bed.
And I know you don’t mean to act like this, but sometimes
I just wish that I knew the person I’m hoping to spend
the rest of my life with as well as I know myself,
instead of just wondering who you’ll be tomorrow
and if it’s anything like who you were today.