Our Bed

I always think of this as "our bed"
- even though you've never been in it.
Even though you've never even seen it. It's
still ours.
Our bed: that's what I call it,
so to me, that's what it is. I call it
ours, because I stole the money
from you to buy it. That makes it part yours,

part mine.

Some might argue more
yours than mine, since
all the money to buy it
came from you. But

that's a jaundiced view,
and one that ignores all the work I put in
to getting this bed: going to stores. Looking
at various beds, picking out the nicest one.
Delivery arrangements. And of course,

stealing the money
from you in the first place. You didn't
make it exactly easy.

You never knew
I was stealing money from you, I know. It wasn't
in retaliation,
a one shot thing late in the game
on the way out the door, because I knew
no other way to hit out at you. No,

it was more just something I did,
built up after long habit.

I've always stolen from the ones I've loved.
Not items and such, I'm not a kleptomaniac. Just

money.

I save it up, mostly.
I don't have a drug habit
or a fashion habit or anything like that
to support. I don't really spend enough
to justify stealing money. So I save it.

I don't know why I'm telling you this
except, I feel like after everything that happened...
I don't want you to blame yourself more than you should.
I feel like you blame yourself. I want you to know
that you're not the bad one. Or at least,
not the only one.

It's not just the stealing. I've also been known to lie.
From time to time, to make someone feel better?

But they're not often very convincing lies.