Stay home for me

Once, I shook next to you on a bus.

I folded my arms under your coat

so you couldn't see how you took over me.

Once I looked down with my head on your chest,

with your words in my hair, and I couldn't bring

myself to put my arm where I wanted it.

You drove an hour once, all the way back home,

when my scream hung in the air and you tasted

your loss, still you didn't stay home for me.

One time you appeared unannounced upstairs.

I wore an old hoodie and you proved I was pretty

after declining to touch me two days before.

This one time, I lifted my forehead from the carpet to your leg,

and your hand stroking my hair stilled my jagged breath

as you listed the reasons you knew who I was.

When it was dark and I broke at the thought of you leaving,

you never knew that I watched from the window
as you knelt on the sidewalk, and prayed to God for us.

Once, on the way to my sister's where I'd finally be alone,

you wouldn't stop turning and looking and crying.

Your eyes stayed off the road, but you couldn't stay home for me.

You found me next to you once in the middle of the night,

and made yourself very clear. You told me again in words, in time,

in promise, then lies, then left, because you wouldn't stay home for me.