without having to say that (I ran out into the street to prove something, that he didn't love me, that I wanted to be thrown over, possessed.)
I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:
Max in the wrong clothes. Max at the party, drunk again.
Max in the kitchen, in refrigerator light, his hands around the neck of a beer.
Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more
I'm surprised that I say it with feeling.
There's a thing in my stomach about this. A simple thing. The last rung.