“I’m rushing to save our friendship,” you said,
not knowing it had been so severely damaged
I could not fathom using that term for us again.
Or maybe you did know, and just wanted to
rekindle my fondness…or stupidity.
Our years have been tournaments in the Sadist Olympics,
and we have both placed gold.
I stand, no crowd cheering, in a spandex suit showing every flaw
with my medal – a shining, leaden noose around my neck.
I drag it behind me until you tire of your silver
and lead a coup to take it back.
We have played this game for far too long,
but it is what we know, which is much less
intimidating than what we do not.
We are each other’s security blanket;
the one we tear away in the night for an overdue laundering.
We are stretched over the sawdust floor,
a safety net for the other’s trapeze act.
But we both ignore the lion’s roar and threatening teeth.
So the question becomes,
Who is next to jump through the flaming hoop?