I’m glad I didn’t stay because, if I had stayed, you would have married me by now.

And then where would we be. Living in an open floor plan home, green cabinets in the kitchen. Me fighting with your sister at the Christmas dinner table.

Because after decades, I would still not be able to stand her. And that’s my fault. Cus she’s nothing but nice. She’s nothing but willing and open. A thriving bouquet in the middle of a holiday spread.

She’d go thrifting with me had I ever asked and she’d-of taught me about the American history had I ever listened. Damnit, she’d-of smiled at me from across the Christmas dinner table. As I sat still and stone-faced.

Andy, she’s probably someone’s kind wife. Me, I’ll probably become someone’s sad wife. And so I’m glad I’m not yours.

In the pictures I can find of you online, I see the blonde woman that became your blonde wife and she slicks her hair back into a low pony-tail and she wears thick rimmed glasses. She is stone-faced like me but, I can tell, she buys flowers on Sundays.

And she probably goes thrifting with Andy. Andy, your everything. Does your blonde wife love Andy like you love Andy. Do you all keep each other warm, talk nicely. I didn’t talk nicely but you thought I did. What’s wrong with you.

Why’d you let me dismiss you after you removed the beanie from your head. Showing your receding hairline. Why’d you let me pull at your v-necks once they’d stretched out like that. Why’d you let me eat your mother’s meals.

Sure I’ve got good skin and a body like some Madonna but what about the way my eyes drift to the other men in the room, the way my long fingers flick my hair to my back, my lips tight as Andy tries to teach me about the American history I should really know by now.

I should really know by now why you loved me and why I didn’t love you back. But I can’t access it. Did you ever access it.

Did you ever look back or did you fall to your knees when the blonde woman became your blonde wife. Did you say, thank God. Did Andy nod in agreement.

Or do you still think of my good skin, my Madonna tits, the way my long fingers felt into you, down down deeper. Down down deeper.