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?