Hope (You’re Not Him)

He told me once about hope:
              Hope is a dangerous thing;
Hope can drive a man insane.
But you’re not him and I know better.

You—you’re not him. Right?
I think.
I hope.

To you, I’m witty and I’m clever.
I’m smart; you love that about me.
You tell me how adorable, how cute I am.
How beautiful, how pretty I look.

And you can’t get enough.
And you’re sorry.
And you think so much of me.
And you’re not him, right?

He told me hope is dangerous.
But it isn’t hope, what we have.
What we had.
And it’s driving me insane.
Because I know it was real.

And you’re sorry,
You’re so very sorry.
But you want more.
And you’re not him.
And you need more.
And you, you swear you’re not him.

But I, I’m not her.
And I don’t think she is either.
She’s just this idea you have in your head.
You’ve built her up after all this time,
Not even she can live up to your expectations.

You cling to this idea—
It’s your lifeblood.
But then you forget.
And this false hope that you have,
It vanishes.

And then you remember;
You remember that I’m real.
That to you, I’m witty.
I’m clever and I’m smart.
And you love this about me.
And we’re real.

But he told me hope is dangerous.
And I should’ve warned you.
Because you’re fading again
Into this false memory.
And you’re hoping for something that doesn’t exist.

And you’re sorry,
You’re so very sorry.
But you, you’re not him.
Right?

And I know hope is dangerous,
Because it’s driving me insane.
Fucking
Insane.
And I know it was real.

And you want more.
And you’re not him.
And you’re sorry.
And you need more.
You’re so very sorry.