Not Quite Right

It’s not quite right.

But it will do.

At least until it doesn’t.

But then –

chances are,

you won’t, either.

-

Years don’t roll back.

No hidden gears. No cosmic hands.

Just you, standing in the wreckage,

pretending it could have gone another way.

-

She was there for the right moment,

but you weren’t all right.

Shackled by things you don’t even remember.

Stupid things.

Meaningless things.

Things that meant so much then –

just like these shackles now,

which feel equally right.

-

No.

They are not quite right.

But they will do.

-

But listen –

maybe suddenly,

the whole universe will turn over.

The seams will snap open,

spitting out time like chewed-up gristle.

Things will fall back

into their holes,

into their places,

into their rightful orbits.

-

No.

-

It’s not quite right.

Not even when entropy flips,

when time chokes on its own tail,

when meaning swells, cracks,

and shrivels into a singularity of longing.

-

No.

Not even then.

-

Not when you stood at too many doorways

with your hands in your pockets,

saying nothing,

doing nothing,

until the door shut

and your only skill became regret.

-

Your whole life a cheap stage show of

not quite right.

-

And don’t get me started

on all the things you got absolutely wrong.

And knew them to be,

even as you did them.

-

You knew, right?

Or not quite.

-

Like when you lay in that bed,

staring at the ceiling

while they took their turns,

took their time,

and your body,

as if to do so was their right.

-

Or when you said yes at the club,

even when your gut was a clenched fist.

Even when you told yourself you were fine.

Even with the bit at the toilet.

The smell of piss.

Of sweat.

Of a mouth that wasn’t yours on your skin.

Even then, you told yourself you were fine.

-

But in the end –

you’ve got one chance at this.

At least,

only one that matters to you.

-

So don’t tell me I should get it right.

Not even you did.

-

And we both know –

between you and me –

you in the mirror,

staring at me with my own fucking face,

pretending you’re better,

(And what if you really are?)

even if it's not quite right,

it will do.

It has to.

We tell ourselves that much.

.