There’s a version of me that lives in your head

 That lamp you threw at him went whizzing by, but it didn’t connect. He ran and hid under the bed. He waited until you started rummaging through the sock drawer looking for the switch blade you had stashed in case of a serial killer. When your back was turned, he flew down the stairs in one giant leap, then slipped out the window right before you uncapped the gasoline and lit the match. He made it out alive, despite your best efforts.

He found you later, crumpled in a heap in front of your pile of ash, face in your hands, weeping. He sat down with you, touched your hair, put his arm around your waist, you moved your face from your hands to his shoulder and cried some more.

You like this one. You remember wanting to love this one. It hurts you when you see him in pain, when he writes about wanting to lie down with you, wrap you in a blanket, bring you coffee. You’re so tired of doing everything alone, having to be everything a person needs all for yourself. Your own support, your own confidant, the one who gives you pep talks, and takes out the trash and fixes the leak in the bathroom sink. When you’re worn from doing all those things for yourself you think about him. You wish he was there with you and maybe you could bring him coffee, too. He’s the one who really makes you cry. He’s the one you wanted me to be. Or maybe that’s just a story I tell myself.