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Because in my head
for every one story
there are ten more
and one story says that
you love me and only me
even though I hold
no claim to you
and it's not fair to imagine
that I do
but in that story
we are two lovers
standing on the edge
of something tremendous
and dangerous and beautiful
and I want it.

In another story
we're parallel, side by side
together in a way that's
not together, almost touching
but you've got yours
and I've got mine
and that's okay, isn't it?
Except I don't want mine
because all I see is you
and it's scary to be this
available, to give this much,
to have you here and yet
be alone on the edge.

And then there's the story
where you tell me
I make you happy
and then copy and paste
that message to her
or to any number of hers
and I remember the way you spoke
that first day, that first week
how desperately we wanted
to connect and I imagine
you telling her those things
and I want to die.

I want to jump off the edge
alone and be tremendously
gone because the stories
won't stop and they're
killing me. The choose-your-own-adventure
plethora of possibility
is too much and this is why
I told you from the beginning
that I'm bad at this,
that I am too much.
I am too many stories
being told at the same time.