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She Called Me An Idiot Again

She called me an idiot again,
which is a step down -
admittedly,
from telling me she wished a bullet would pass through me,
or that I'd be run over
on the side of the road.

Last week
my therapist told me
that I've no idea what a healthy relationship
would even look like.

Robin Williams did it the right way.
Not to say he should have,
but the people who are going to
aren't going to let people know,
they're not going to linger at the side of the bridge
waiting for someone to stop them.

My old friend Delirium Tremens and I
will have one of our epic conversations this evening;
of this I can say I have been looking forward all week.

I forgot rhyme and rhythm and meter.
Excuse me.

There's a lot,
actually,
that I've forgotten.
Not more than you, necessarily,
dear reader,
but a lot.

And if this particular poem feels incomplete,
well,
maybe I intended it that way.

I love that woman
but she hurts me so much,
and in the most intentional ways.

Can I become an alcoholic in my forties?

I swear she's driving me that way.

So what do I do?
Do I leave,
knowing she'd never make it?
Oh, she'd survive,
of that I have no doubt,
but she'd fall
as flat as her mother.

And I can't let that happen.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 

Comments

Wonder what happens next?
~ Gee.
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and blames me for all of her problems.

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