A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

A recurrent theme: I return 
time and again to the idea
that I will lose you, and
that it will be my own fault. 
I perseverate, the fears ricochet 
around my skull until their clamour 
is so loud the reverberation shakes me
to my core. And when at last I bring 
these fears to your feet,
I am met with a reassurance 
that is neither gentle nor kind.
You should know better. 
That’s what you tell me. 
You know I love you. You know
I want you. You know I wouldn’t leave. 
And once, I would blush
and apologise for my doubts
as though they were flaws in my own character. 
But I remember crying
on a picnic table in Centennial Park
as you gave your ultimatum.  I remember
practically begging for my boundaries
to be respected, without even realising
that when I talked about my boundaries, 
I really meant me. And so I turned traitor
and helped you dismantle my walls,
for fear that you would leave. 
And then weeks later, you moved 
the remaining sandbags
as though they were light as a feather,
and without even asking permission,
and all I could feel was the shame,
and all I could think of was all the reasons it was my fault,
though I had not even known
you were doing so. You, who knew me,
said this was love and I believed you.
And yet, when I offered her
my broken defences, and told her to help herself
to the contents of the already ransacked house,
knowing that it would cause more damage, 
yet shortsightedly thinking of small gains
and fleeting pleasures that pass quickly, 
kept alive only in memory, she paused. 
She said I will not cross this threshold,
and I,
I said for goodness’ sake, the door 
is already broken in, and there is no glass
left in the window panes, and I know
you have a mercenary heart (like mine)
so please, just take what you want,
and she, in that moment, was more man 
than ever you were. All the times
she’s tried to tell me she’s not a good person,
all the reasons she has to do as she pleases - 
the laws in her land are different to mine,
and I consented, inasmuch as I ever have done,
possibly more so - and yet, she paused. 
I want to, she said, but these are your boundaries,
broken though they may be,
and I watched
as she respected them, and with them, me.
My ranks depleted, my army weak, 
I had not left the strength to do anything but surrender.
Can you imagine my surprise
when she used the strength and authority of conquest
to build me up rather than tear me down?
And as I sit here, ruminating, 
processing the shock of the difference, 
I’m staring at flowers in a vase
and there I find another point of comparison.
I remember when you managed my expectations,
told me clearly what to expect, 
or rather what not to expect,
and I remember managing my disappointment,
and trying so hard to hide it from you.
There was logic to your reasoning, I could concede,
but what is the point of logic in the midst of romance?
Again, I pushed aside any personal preference
for fear of being unreasonable,
for fear of seeming too needy,
all these negative traits that might serve
to push you away.
I remember foolishly thinking
how wonderful it was, when you then asked
if I wanted the very thing 
you had told me I could not have. 
I know how against it he is, I thought, 
and yet look at him, considering my feelings, 
asking if it’s something I need. And so,
of course, I needed to be the good girl.
I told you what I knew you wanted to hear - 
no, of course I don’t need them, don’t want them. 
But every single time, it became harder,
because every single time I wondered, 
if just once, you would not ask, would just do,
would just know that of course the answer was yes. 
And this time, 
you didn’t ask,
and I admit
I was naïve enough to entertain the hope
that the time had come. 
But no, apparently now 
it’s no longer even worth the pretence
of offering, and the irony is not lost on me:
I now miss the charade I swore I hated. 
And these beautiful flowers from a friend
are a knock against the bruise,
a reminder of the wound.
And still my mind turns over that well-worn stone:
I wonder if I will lose you?
I don’t wish to, 
but I’m starting to realise that if I do, 
it won’t have been my fault.