What If?

My perceptions are wrong? I've sorted and scanned
filed and presumed. The love of my life could have
slipped through my skeleton fingers...I hope he is not hurt by
my pain or his own or someone else's. Either way, my love was, at the time,
bound and chained but burst through. I shamed myself with
dancing white boys on social media, an edible skull in black and red, smiles,
and a green cloak. I had no idea.

I'm compelled to apologize even though part
of me knows either way there's no need. He's
just another set of blue eyes. That I loved like he was part
of me. I would have protected him. He did not protect me.
I don't know what he knew. My maw-maw said, believe
only half of what you see. And nothing you hear. I could not hear!

But the terrible things I've seen! The flashes and the triggers.

Where does that leave me? What if? In my daydreams, our children
were beautiful. Poets and archers. Skull and crossbones
little shit daredevils on motorcycles with great teeth. I love him
and then I hate him. I want him. I want to slap him in the face.
What if this is the fantasy to cover the harsh bloody reality?
A coping mechanism. What if the reality is even more horrific
than even I can accept? There's no setting the record straight with
my PTSD screams of terror and assumptions. Dear God, what if?

"I'm never coming back."

What did I sound like that day? I felt as if my chest sank
deep into the driver's seat as I rushed toward the answer
to what I thought was our problem. When I hate him, it seems
like just my problem. And what a terrible one it was! What if?
Would it be better or worse to know the truth? I found a poem.
I couldn't even read at that point. I could barely see. What if?


If not, then he's a monster.

What if?

Nevermind, it just really matters.

Who are you to me? Like they ask back home. Or who am I to you?

He's dying in my mind; last night I killed him there. I am grieving without knowing if he deserves such a fate. I don't want him to die.

Is it just the him I constructed?

Someone keeps telling me he owes me nothing.
Not a single word.

What if I should appreciate him? I do.

What if I should fear him? I do.

What if I was the only one who felt then? In a way, I was.

What if I never feel this way again? I likely never will.

What if my instinct is so far gone I couldn't
see the blast coming? Could be.

I am fallout dusted and I am broken. This is titillation with a toilet brush. My mind reels. Too much agony. Blindfolds and torture chambers ain't my thing.

What if there's something as intense, less brutal, and more meaningful?

What if?

Sade: "Well, you done gone and fucked that up, haven't you Neeta?" I guess I did. What if I didn't? What if I did?

For my construct of the inspiration for the Rambo Brite character. Whomever he is today, beyond the shitshow of 2003-2013. The monster or the thief. What if both?