When I tell you
I love you
you answer
"me too"
and perhaps
I misconstrue,
that you love
yourself
like the
affirmations
advise,
the ones we
see on Instagram,
that Rupi Kaur
is full of them,
churning them
out
like some poet in
a fast food
window,
where you pick
up a side of
"you're better off
without him"
plus some
platitude
on the rain
to wash it down,
or maybe
"me too"
is a memory,
in the (not so)
recent past:
an abusive ex,
a diddling dad,
the gymnastics
coach who always
held you snug,
checked out your
ass
instead of your
landing,
after vaulting
and parallel bars
but then
I've always
read too much
into your
words,
thinking there's some
story
below the surface,
a recollection
that encircles
like a shark,
that you're afloat
in a punctured
dinghy
awaiting rescue,
by an aqua
knight who rides
the seven seas,
one who sees
a kraken
where there's not,
thinks "right
back at you,"
"ditto kiddo"
is the beast
of a thousand
fathoms
he's come
hastily
to slay.
Andreas Gripp
September 2, 2023
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