Dear Javi

I know you think that I am too idealistic,
but baby, please understand that my optimism
is all that she left me to hang onto.

I grew up learning that love is war
and victories are always Pyrrhic,

but back then,
we were too young to know that
in the face of hate. Once,
she told me she was terrified
of how much she could bleed,

so I promised her
I would swallow her hurt
until it was nothing more
than the same lump in my throat
I got right before I kissed her.

It did not take long for reality
to set in on our idealism; storm
clouds curling around our existence
like carcinogenic smoke. There was
a foreboding rolling thunder in the distance
as if the lightning was twisting the clouds
until they cried out in pain.

She cut grooves into the inside
of her thighs that my fingertips traveled
in a desperate attempt to put her together
because her life was incapable
of keeping her in one piece.

She made me swear through her tears
that the storm drains we ran through
as kids could wash away the bitterness
of our childhood maelstrom, but

it seemed only days later that she bled out her soul
waiting for God to pick her up at a wrecked intersection.

After her,
I learned firsthand that affection from men
is sometimes synonymous with the emergency room,
and it was only then that I understood
why she needed me to kiss away her bruises.

The nights I spent with an IV in my arm
were the only comforts she could afford from the grave,
and it made me hate her for dying.

Even today, I still have moments
where my heart can't help
but flinch instinctively
when you touch me.

Sometimes, when you curl up next to me,
I find myself reading the lines
you creased into your forehead
to see if I can see if your future
will leave me, too.

I know you want so desperately
for your words to be tourniquets
on my insecurities,

but baby, please understand that her brand of optimism
is all that she left me to hang onto.