He is not a mean drunk.
He is a boisterous drinker,
accidentally hurtful with careless words
and wandering eyes and hands.
I fish for compliments
and reel in jokes.
He loves fat, ugly women.
And I feel a little less worthy of self-love
each time I hear him say so.
But I remind myself that I chose [I choose] this life
and that this loud drunk man having fun
is my closest friend.
Even though he doesn’t know me all that well
despite the years
Despite my attempts to show him.
He falls asleep the second he hits a pillow.
And I lay in bed knowing that
he’ll wake me up for love in the morning
And I’ll go to the bathroom to quietly cry.
Because I am. So. Tired.