There's a beast I'm exorcising as I read these stories
The beast that says I should not feel the way I do about you
Story after story in style after style
That say that it's okay not to recover
Or to recover, too
I'm tired, mostly, of driving myself
To be what someone thinks counts as healthy
When they think that I should talk and that should help
And if I don't talk they worry
And if I do, and cry, they worry more
Because it was supposed to help
It did, perhaps, the first time
And moving on did, perhaps, the first time
And perhaps there's always good in the talking and the moving on
But I'm tired all the same. I do not want it
Do not need it
Cannot care that I don't heal in the way you think I should.
Seven years, almost, by now
Soon enough it will be ten
And my memory won't fade much more by then.
Seven years, I had you half that long
And yet the seven seem no wrong
For Love, that monster, broke me into bits and made me new.
So, what, then, now?
I should tell you that I've healed.
That I like living alone and having friends instead of lovers
And those friends are darling to me and they leave me bright with wonder
And that friends are all I really want to stay with me the night.
And the thought of sex is fading
And the dreams growing confused
As my dreaming mind can't parse
when friends stand where lovers used
But I'm happy here as long as I'm not too long alone
And I cherish all the fresh young life I see
I do not need it to be me
And I do want a partner and a friend who wants me near
Someone I can take care of and who I can hold most dear
And when I cry over the past - it's scarred, I always will -
I wonder if, without romance, of which I've had my fill,
I could be a little better of a friend, and neighbor, too,
If all my love were given without bonds or hope to bind.