You ran away from home at fourteen after ma & pa told you they couldn't love you no more. You only had one good knife & a tolerance for pain back then. Older now, but not much wiser-you've got spurs on your boots, a job in ranching, & a pistol always by your side. Admittedly, the life of a cowboy is a lonely one.
The West is cruel; knows a thousand ways to destroy you & another thousand ways to destroy those you love. Man was created to kill man. It's a dog-eat-dog world is what your pa told you & what his pa told him. When other folk ask you; why haven't you got a partner yet? You laugh, tell them; this town ain't got enough room for another.
This is what you've always sworn by for as long as that tattoo's been on your bicep. But he's a steady shoulder, a good rider & even better singer. A real spur or spike in your side yet tender like a wild flower. My stallion, my pistol, my wild flower-thank you for being here with me, you say to him. He cradles you like a valley.
(Perhaps you are not as damned as you think. Perhaps you are not doomed to walk this Earth on your own).
I remember getting on the ferry with a bag of sour candies in hand & you complaining about the ache in your back from your camping bag. Our hair was whipped into a frenzied mess as we watched the waves beneath us on the deck. You were scared of getting car sick on the bus ride there & so I gave you an acupuncture wristband. I remember singing Mitski while we paddled on the water, you cursing me to the high heavens as we fought against the wind, & me teaching you how to start a fire with damp kindling. At the cabin, you were explaining to me your elaborate skincare routine & I was teasing you about your peach fuzz. I never told you how elated I felt when you applauded my "masculine camping skills". I remember you and I on a rock with the sun dipping into the sea behind us & all I could think about was how in love I was with you.
No one told me to take photos. No one told me that one day these friends will stop asking you about your latest fictional crush or what you got on the physics test or if you're okay because you've been looking real tired lately.
I know this; we're gonna walk different paths & time isn't patient or kind enough to wait for us. (I wish I could ask God for more time, I wish I could fossilise this moment in amber & keep us here forever.)
Those notes you gave me in my yearbooks, in my journal, on sticky notes--I keep them in my room, & so my house will never be empty.
Whenever people ask, I answer: no, I don't hate her. I can't hate her.
I go down to the basement every once in a while, just to check on her
& she is still sitting there in her pink shorts, playing with plastic dinosaurs & cars.
Nothing ever changes down here.
We share a drink when I visit, always orange juice (no pulp)
& she tells me about how the spinosaurus was the longest carnivorous dinosaur that ever lived, about the classmates who look at her funny, about how she eats lunch alone but it doesn't bother her, about the camp counsellor who likes to grab her between the legs.
Then she asks me about life on the overworld.
The overworld is scary, sometimes, I say. You wouldn't like it.
I tell her that I got my hair cut scraggly & short-ish,
that I'm not sure if I belong in this world anymore,
& that I'm afraid of looking like dad when his features start to set and dry on my face.
I don't tell her about how grandma's starting to forget us,
or that mom doesn't mention me by name anymore,
or that dad's got a new family & a son he actually asked for.
When I admit that I've made people think I buried her,
she forgives me; crooked teeth gleaming & I wonder how someone could hold so much good in her heart.
No, I don't hate her. I can't hate her.
Hate will not change how things came to be.
It will not change the inevitable;
all men & boys like me will have to lie in their graves with the girls they once were.
You get it.