“me too”

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 every sprat has

churned them out,

like a poetaster

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 from a thousand

fathoms he's come hastily

to slay.           

Andreas Gripp

RF Image