Incompatible. You and I are that, is incompatible.
                Or inconceivable. Or incoherent. Or incomprehensible,
                one of those inco judgment calls. I don’t have a say
                in the matter, it would appear. Arguably, we should’ve
                been a nice fit, you with your grudge, me clinging
                to mine like holding my spit on my tongue, both refusing
                to admit to our own defense mechanisms, both objecting
                to holistic treatment, both mixing up a new batch of spite
                as fast as it can ooze up to the surface. I risk infection
                as if I were changing my home address. I tolerate rejection
                as but a complication, nothing a little therapy won’t cure
                the shit out of me. My chances of survival jump enough
                to make me want to do it all over again, liking coming back
                to the same bed two consecutive nights past the weekend
                thing I do to keep up my pretenses. Or incorrigible, maybe.
                I don’t have to make any irreversible decisions, not yet,
                not until my condition reaches what my doctors can call
                life-threatening. Inconsequential. That’s it. That’s what
                we are, is inconsequential. The marrow cells you replace
                were consequential to my everything. You remain foreign,
                as out of place in me as if I were to substitute my thunder
                with your landslide merely because they both make sound
                rumble like a freight train passing through my fitful sleep.
                No longer immune, I fall prey to your attack, my new me.


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