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.