I like to talk about things 

like whether or not God would have friends if He went to my old high school

and how all saints were probably secret skeptics with blasphemous diary entries

and how I’d rather choke myself to death than marry someone stupid.

You don’t.

You’d rather listen, absorbing my farfetched philosophies, nodding

just to gratify my sickness. I get too swept away in passion, but you

find it charming or exotic or something, I’m still not sure—

but you haven’t left yet and that’s what makes you different

from everyone else. You tolerate, 

at the very least, my diatribes and ramblings, 

my red-in-the-face awakenings that leave me breathless and murdered

on your bedroom carpet, muttering Holy shit over and over again

into my hands like litany. You don’t articulate your opinions on whether the universe 

is benevolent or indifferent or evil, or if you believe money is merely a social construct

invented to control us like I do, or if you’re even remotely afraid of dying.

I used to hate it, wished that you’d get bloodthirsty for answers 

like me, violent for truth palpable enough to hold in your palms. But now 

I understand you’d rather just hold me, would rather just swaddle me in stillness, 

or maybe you’re afraid that if you verbalized your inner world

mine would disintegrate, that I’d fracture into a thousand pieces, 

that maybe I would pixelate in your arms. You don’t say much 

but you don’t have to. 

I can feel what you’re thinking without words, 

when you pull me closer, into the act which requires no explanation, 

no language, no absurd fit of anger to express its depths.

In these moments you’re not thinking about God or money

or really anything at all– other than how to keep me 

from swimming too far from shore.

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