You Won't Realize I'm Gone I can’t imagine getting married. I can see a man with a strong jaw line on one knee as his shoe lace turns into a diamond as big as my cornea. The excitement and the disappointment. “I thought you understood.” Still hopeful expression, trying to be strong for the strangers leaning in on the scene. Maybe I will marry him and ignore all the foreshadowing I hallucinated in high school. The smell comes back and those chords ring in my head, but I’ll drown them out. I won’t close my eyes. I’ll wake up with the outline of clean sheets on my arms and the imprint of a wedding band on my finger and relieved bruises on my neck. We’ll be happy for a while. I wonder how much I’ll tell him, how much he’ll never understand, how much of me he’ll create in his head. The house will need a little work, so I’ll wake up a couple mornings a week to power tools and the smell of fresh paint. He’ll look like my father did in ‘91. I’ll know I’ll love him then. Naked Sunday mornings and Saturday nights like high school and Wednesday nights full of music. But I could have that with anyone. I’ll tell myself I couldn’t. I’ll tell myself it feels better than those nights in 2012 when I cried because I was so happy. So if he asks me, I’ll say no. Return the ring. Who do you think you are? This shit is dangerous. And he’ll tell me he knows and he expected this but, think about it; it only makes sense. It will feel like a falling out but I’d beg him to stay. Just not this way. I don’t know what kind of man he’ll be, but anyone in their right mind would give up on me. Maybe he’d surprise me and love me and sleep next to me without getting the government involved. It’ll be the same, but it’ll last longer without the celebration. I can feel it in my bones. The#moondoesn’t dance for married men. The sun doesn’t shine through the blinds of a complete home. Classics, both banned and hidden from history, will line the apartment and unfinished novels will be strewn from the rafters and ripped and painting on the walls. We’ll talk about how we should’ve been rock stars, but he’ll always end up playing someone else’s song and he’d be the only one who’d listen to me sing. He’ll break my head and I’ll never get used to it. I’ll just learn to decipher the songs he plays and his color palette. I’ll wear his shirts at dinner and a pair of underwear at breakfast. There’ll be skeletons leftover from Halloween year round and Christmas lights left along the headboard. I’ll tell him not to talk to me when I’m writing and no, I’m not going to tell you what it’s about. I’ll bitch and moan and cry and he’ll say I’m too sensitive and I’ll call him ignorant and I’ll wait for him to come to me. “You’re so fucking stubborn,” he’ll say and I’ll ignore it. I’ll just smoke out the window and tip the ashes on some poor soul’s head. Five points. I’ll cave into his chest because he’ll know I can’t go to sleep angry. And on days when he’s an asshole, I’ll tell him and keep him up till the early morning because I won’t let him go to sleep angry either. “You’re fucking just as bad as I am.” A couple kisses goodnight until we fall asleep. None of this would happen with the rings and the wedding wishes, or the priest’s blessing and the in-laws. We’ll let the world assume for itself. I don’t trust myself as a married woman. I won’t love myself yet, but I’ll love him. That won’t be enough.