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So I was dreaming. Last night. You were there. Do you remember?
You picked me up and spun me, for forever,
And when you put me down,
You were gone, disappeared.
I woke up, in bed, with you lying next to me.
You snored. I worried my parents would hear.
They still don’t know.
You asked me not to tell them, and I agreed, because I don’t want to tell them either.
They don’t even know you’re here, in my room, like every other night since way back when.
You’ll have to sneak out in the morning. I left the window open.
It scares me, telling them. Reminding them that I’m grown up, kind of, and not as whole or pure as I should be.
But they didn’t hear. Too tired, I think.
I hope they didn’t hear. Maybe they were faking.
I heard their bed creak, once, twice, three times, and then I stopped listening. I didn’t want to know what they were doing, but I did. That’s the sad part about being grown up. You know things automatically, without trying. You can’t unknow things, even if you want to.
Would you love me, if we stopped?
If you stopped spinning me, would you lose me?
I don’t want to be lost. It’s so very hard to be found again.
It makes you wonder if you were ever found at all.
I wanted to wait, at first, but you wanted to so badly. You wanted a lot of things. I said yes, to every one.
I wish I hadn’t. I’m scared now, all the time.
You touch me, and it hides the fear.
It doesn’t take it away. I’m still scared, underneath. Do you know that?
I don’t think you do. Or else you wouldn’t look so happy.
Maybe you would. Maybe you would smile and laugh and leave me.
I don’t want to think anymore.
I poke you, and you grunt. You make funny sounds when you sleep.
Snort, grunt gurgle. Click, clack, moo.
I shove your shoulder, and you startle awake.
Your eyes are so wide, so blue.
Your breath cuts off, you roll sideways into me. I fall out of bed, and you fall next to me with a thud.
You’re loud when you fall. Like thunder.
My parents are very heavy sleepers.
You glare at me. I can see that, in the darkness, your glare.
It’s so pretty, but I don’t tell you that. You don’t like to be called pretty, I know.
Still. You’re pretty, even when you’re mad, like now.
You whisper, so angry, and I smile at you. I keep smiling, all the way up until you hit me.
Then I laugh.
If you hit me, it means you know I’m there. You won’t forget me, and leave me.
I reach out to you, and suddenly you’re not angry, just warm.
It’s comforting, counting on you being warm.
You touch me, and I’m warm too. It hurts, but that’s okay.
It’s better than being cold.