Of course I’m sorry I went through your phone. It’s just that I was hoping a little of something bad was better than nothing at all. And I just wish it hadn’t been so damning. But of course I was always wrong. And of course it always led to the same shit. Because right now I’m smoking a cigarette in the rain on my mother’s front porch. And I’m wearing my father’s bathrobe, but he is gone and so are you and tonight I will get back on my knees and pray to God that I was right about you.

But for now I’m sitting on the porch in the pouring rain and my knees are spread wide. The cars deserve a show and so do the women in them. Because my life still depends on making women blush. And it always did. And oh how indecent. But tonight I’ll curl up in your bed. Or the closest I can come to it. And I’ll say a little prayer with a loaded gun gripped tight under the covers. Because my brains on your pillow is something I can control. And those are the things I’ve really been trying to focus on.

And I’m doing this all because I know you like when I make myself a spectacle. And I always planned to go down in a blaze of glory. That’s why I took all your Vicodin on Valentine’s Day. Or maybe that was because I’m Bipolar. I don’t know if I ever told you that, but maybe it’s something that could bring you peace. It never was my idea. I couldn’t handle it. Good ideas have brought me places I wouldn’t go with a gun. But with you by my side I’ll go wherever my ideas take me.

And baby when I’m doing better the words don’t flow out right. So thank you for leaving. And thank you for not making this easy. I want to tattoo the claw marks you left on my back so the new girls know what’s not theirs. And then I want to skinny dip inside your mind. And flail around like a fish until a life guard has to come and save me. And when you’re running toward me like Bay Watch with your breasts flopping around in a red one piece maybe I’ll see God. Or maybe not God but the closest thing I could ever hope to find.

And then I wanna reach inside of you and into the divine. Come up onto the porch with me. Swim with me. I want you sad. And I want your big doe eyes to look up into my closed Doe eyes as you untie my bathrobe. Our love was always meant for everyone else. And then I want you to make me see my ancestors. And I’ll sweat and sweat and sweat. And you’ll hold the hand inside me. And the Lakota Indians will scream and through the black I’ll see the eagles circling overhead. And my father will come home and give me a kiss on the forehead. And mommy will stop drinking. And all will be right in Michigan again. Because it will just be us two. And everyone else. And they’ll watch me erupt all over you. And watch you grin when it’s all over. And watch me smile as I grab you my father’s towel and my mother’s gun.

You know that’s why they put my sponsor up on a hill. It’s why he refused the food and the water when they asked him to go home. Because there are things men are meant to learn on the top of a hill. Because this country wasn’t built for men. Men who have become so weak. When he was hungry he felt her there beside him. And it made everything okay. Even though it rained and rained and rained. And he shivered under a tree while he cried. And he Didn’t. Want. It. To. Fucking. Stop. Because this is why they put Jesus on a cross. Because men with Substance Abuse Disorder always feel like God. And Mary’s hole was always so tight. Because the good things are always the ones that grip.

I know this book won’t save me. Because the problems go away unsolved. And none of this is even real. There was a time when I used to think that everything was real. I would tweet it from the mountaintops. But only certain things are real. And you didn’t say a fucking thing. I love how you ignore me even though it’s so humbling. It’s humbling to have your desperation laid out in front of you like this. You who can be so violent. And me who was always so weak. Me who was always a cog in the machine of love. Me who only ever felt safe in the arms of a sweet girl.

Because the problem is my life was built around the lie that women desire strength. When actually it’s that men have to be strong to give them what they want. And what is it, to be a man. I know that the sobriety feels like punishment. And that my loads belong on you and not my hand. I am still permanently preoccupied with your past. I’m sorry I could never forgive you for it. It’s just that I am not strong, remember? And I apologize for the creepy and reactive and weird texts I sent you. But it’s not my fault that the ashtray of my heart is still ashen and disgusting. Because it’s on you to come over and lick it clean.

I guess I’ll leave you with this. Imagine if you actually gave a fuck. About me. If you never asked “what are we” but “what could we be.” I know that women don’t want me. They just want my hands. But it’s not fair you’re having so much fun while I'm like this. Destroyed. Because I remember driving down the highway as a child watching a man throw kittens out his window. As if that were fair. And I remember feeling just like I do now. Like God isn’t real and he does not care about me.

So I’ve been writing poems against you. In Michigan. Poetry as self harm. But I’m only calling to say that I love you. And that no, actually things got worse. Because last night I was doing a reading on Chaturbate. And I was reading all these nasty things I’ve written about you. And as the tokens came in I realized how fucking high I was still getting. Because the girls who were really gay guys were slobbering over my hands. The hands that used to be yours. And something about that made me feel so disgusting that I grinned. And I told them I’m so glad porn is real. Because I don’t care what anyone sees of me. And because I went to heaven and nobody knew you. And the angels told me that what was on your back weren’t angel wings but something else. Something worse. And that made me so sad and confused that I realized actually all of this really is over. For good.

But I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ve realized my poetry is mostly about me. And every poem has a name. This one is How many times do u have to forgive me. And I hope that is something you find out for yourself. Because I don’t think you are willing to accept that men suffer so deeply.