The first time we are introduced, my entire life story spills into
your open mouth, and you shake my wrist instead of my hand,
simultaneously covering my scars with your fingers while looking me
directly in the eyes. In sixth grade I took dancing lessons
in the waltz and tango, but my feet could never quite keep up
with my head. I am always one step ahead, two steps back.
I have spent so many nights climbing the moon just to see if there was
a ladder at the top that would lead me to the next flight of stars,
but there never was. No one ever offered me a jumbo jet
to skylift me out of this place;
I will goddamn bungee jump 54,368 feet from a moving airplane
if it means leaving this town and the same old ghosts behind.
Our first dinner date consisted of a movie without popcorn
because you were allergic to salt,
and halfway through the credits
you informed me you were bipolar.
Sometimes you swallow stars and explode like a firework;
other times you cannot even support your own head,
like a newborn baby lolling in its mother’s arms.
But I would visit every grave in Texas and dig up every corpse
if it meant finding you the right place to die
when your time is due.
Some days the medication works like a dream and you’re high off of
your own magic dust, bouncing off the walls;
others it’s like spotting an acquaintance from across the street
and squinting at them vaguely from a great distance,
as if you’re not quite sure
whether you recognize them or not.