This is what children of narcissists do - Day Three Hundred sixty-five

This is what children of narcissists do

There is no wrong way to love someone, my mother always said.

She was pushing boundaries like a small vacuum, getting them

caught in my throat. You and I have learned to make adjustments,

moving one another like boats. The way I see it, we’re injured,

but valiantly. When we resemble each other, those are the instances

of collision. Let me touch your soft places, touch you to distraction.

I want us to forget our respective pasts, the impossible stain

of youth. Yesterday, at the craft show, I imagined you nested

amidst the t-shirts and the glass. I’m diligent about waving to you

when you leave in the morning, but when we’re in a crowd,

I’d rather deflect attention. Yours is the only hand I want pinning

me to the bed. Even in my dreams, I’m voiceless, rubbed thin

like a quarter or a dime.