sarah kane told me it was the witching hour. and then she hung herself.

at 448 i told him
i told him i could not love him
i told him i needed more
or was it less
of him
of myself
of us
of the dirty sheets and unmade table
of the broken shoes and rotten lilacs
of the way you keep me up at night
the way my arm falls asleep under your body
the way you tell me to make dinner
or do you ask me
i could never tell
or ask

at 449 he told me
he told me that he hated me
or did he cry?
would one cry
can you
cry
we cried once
and it troubled me for days
to watch you
a grown man (perhaps you are not grown)
to watch you
a man
cry to me
about how lost you feel
i cannot help you
i cannot hold your hand
i did not come to this cold city to be your mother
to tell you things will be ok

so at 450 i told him
i told him I was leaving
my suitcase was already packed
hidden under the bed
you’ve already packed haven’t you?
you asked me
he asked me
how did you know
how did you smell it on me
the nervous ticks?
the worn brown leather?
the smell of moth balls?
the black silk underwear you gave me for Christmas one year
balled up between my old suede boots
and that stupid woolen sweater with the reindeer
how could you have known
that i would have the foresight to pack my stuff


perhaps you know
perhaps you know how easily i am convinced
convinced to stay
perhaps you know a packed bag is
what
i
need

to know that I am really leaving
i am really leaving
i really am leaving