when to move on:

                there should be a guide for that callous phrase.

as if “moving on” is possible

                when my feet are rooted in cement.

 

your moods change with the barometer

                and I stabilize you—

hush, hush, I call your name,

                a mother with smooth eyes, firm hands.

I push you down,

                so you can feel how light I am.

 

it sinks in, my happiness,

                but it is a facsimile—

when was the real thing yours to hold?

                you leech it from me,

minerals from a stone,

                you expect me to play counterpoint

to your self-hatred,

                self-doubt,

weaknesses gained from

                stripping me down to the source—

what little I had, you took.

 

it still isn’t enough.

 

I told you “faking it” was a disease.

                but you pull at me

with bruising hands

                and ask if you should hold

a fist to push your veins

                to the surface,

while I vaccinate you

                to the truth.

 

those times

                I bowed under you,

your weight insubstantial

                as sunlight,

but it was expected of me,

                an established pattern

of give and take.

 

but you leave me

                empty.

you leave me

                weaker.

bone brittle,

lips dry.

you leave me

less.

 

but now, I open my hands.

                you fall and weep and beg.

you cling,

                a desperate half-measure

born of fear.

but letting go

has never been so easy.