But I Won't

I could love you if I let myself -
if the creases in your hands did not look like ravines I'd fall into
if you did not get my wheels spinning so fast that my feet lose traction
and when I fall, my face is too slathered in blood
to see you clearly

I could love you if I let myself
love myself (a little)
so that the sand of me does not fall through your fingers so easily
so that I am enough to hold onto, to pull toward you
but I am the fog and you are the trees
and we surround each other without touching
and sometimes that is all I am capable of

maybe I could love you if I let go of my own fists
but the air in my lungs is cold, and breathing on my hands
only helps the ice crystals to grow, I swear
I could love you if I just
opened my heart up a little, but I tend to open my legs instead
and the only thing I have to show for that
is a list of strangers' names and a stomach ache

but I could love you if I let myself
see past myself
and trust that you might be trustworthy
or at least, a little less dangerous than what I am used to
because I have been in love that feels like getting drunk on poison
and asking for more
and it has left scars in my veins from the nights that I thought
I had to abandon myself instead of him

but I promise, I could love you if I let myself
stop writing poems about the things that have ripped me open
if I started to use my own words to stitch myself up instead
I could love you if I let myself
repair myself
instead of replicating toxic patterns and repeating myself again
instead of beating my head against the brick walls I've built
instead of hoping for new results while I am still
listening to old tapes and
playing old games and
drinking old poison and staying fog-thin
and letting the blood on my face dry to a paste
and keeping my fists curled
and pushing away when I'm pulled
I'm so sorry

I promise
I could love you
if I let myself love anything at all, really