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.