In the kitchen on Moh Lhean,
we’re at the counter. I’m eating.
Cheapskate skirt steak
is what I’m having.

You ain’t eating nothing,
seems like you wanna listen.
You ask how’d my therapy go,
I say we mostly talked about you.

You say, “You don’t have to go into it.”
I’m looking at the counter surface.
I say, “You’re too pessimistic,
that’s why we’re not the best fit.

I’m too dark and negative,
I need someone the opposite,
someone naturally positive
to pull me out of my shit.”

I say it kinda harsh, and
staring at a pattern in the granite.
More logic than emotion.
You try to respond but start crying.

I look you in the eye then,
just for a second.
I really want to cry but can’t.
I hate how cold and strident I am.

Cut off another bit and chew it quick,
swallow with whole milk.
I can tell it makes you sick.
You’re thinking, “What a fucking dick.”

—Maybe those last drops of love
were draining out from your tear ducts.
That might’ve been when it all changed—

Staring at my plate,
I cut another bite of steak.

“That wasn’t all I told him about you,
I said nice shit as well.”
I jerk the fork to my mouth,
chew it out loud.

You hang around for a while
behind a teary eyed smile,
then you gotta head out to dinner
with your mother and your sister.

Later at the Loon alone,
after my Frenette,
I feel a blunted panic.
I wish I hadn’t said it.

I wish I hadn’t said it.