One. I got your name tattooed on my arm. And if you leave me, if you leave me, I will go through hell just to get it removed; I will stand there crying with my hands over my eyes, the kind of crying that makes you feel like the weight of all the stars just dropped on your chest. And I will stand there as the lazer removes that tattoo and removes your name from my arm, from my skin, from my world.
Two. I have given you everything. When you told me you had OCD, I told you I loved you anyway. I will you tell again. I will tell you as many times as you need me to repeat it before every syllable sounds perfect and clean and pristine and you can stop washing your hands of the mispronounced consonants. One. I love you. Two. I love you. Three. I love you. Four. I love you. Five. I love you. Six. I love you. Seven. I still love you, I love you, I love, I. You.
Three. The therapist called up yesterday and suggested I make a few extra appointments per week. But I have already nailed this heart to the stars in an effort to rid myself of its weight. You want to know how it got so heavy? I was busy carrying yours too.
Four. Your skin is a band-aid and I will plaster myself with you then peel you off again and again until I no longer get the urge to hurt myself. In return I will be your antiseptic and you can take me any damn time you need. I hid all the knives, so we can only cut our steak with forks and spoons now.
Five. No snowflake is exactly the same. There are over 189,437,321,098,567,8932 different snowflakes in the entire world. I’d catch every fucking one on my tongue and count every edge, every hollow and dip and crevasse that made it unique, if it meant that winter would come another year. It’s your favorite season.
Six. I made a boat out of my bed so when you get depression again you can sail away on the sea; I’ll man the rudder so you can relax and enjoy the view. Just make sure to let me know if you need any more pillows.
Seven. I hope the next woman that tries to sleep with you trips in a puddle on the way home. I have never wanted to kill myself, thought about it maybe, but when I see you talking to another girl I want to step into a lane of fast-paced traffic.
Eight. I found you in the bathtub last year. I fucking found you in the bathtub. In the bathtub. The bathtub. If you ever paint the water that shade of red again I will personally tear that canvas up with my own bare hands and force you to start over, this time with the brightest color of yellow I can find.
Nine. Don’t bring me home to dinner. I won’t impress your parents. I’ll fumble over everything and drop the plates of turkey and mashed potatoes and I’ll somehow manage to smear butter all over your dad’s shirt. I’ll break a wineglass. I’ll throw up out of nervousness in your little brother’s lap and my hands will be shaking because I will be so anxious; I have stage fright in your presence; I want to spend the rest of my life with you but I’m afraid I have to make a good show for your parents
and I don’t
want to mess
that up.
Ten. I dreamt that you died, and I went to pick out a coffin for you. But when I got to the funeral home, the director said I couldn’t because I already had one of my own. We were both dead. If you died, I’d die too.