I saved you a spot.

That’s where
       the better version
       of the night

       was supposed to start.

Irby’s.

Game five.

Too many people
    packed into a place
    I already know gets sharp

    when the crowd gets too large.

Your BFF and I
     watched from behind
     the seat
     I was keeping

     for you.

Which sounds sweet,
      because it was.

At first.

But the room
    had already started
    doing that thing
    rooms can do

    when there are
    too many bodies,
    too much noise,
    too many edges

    looking for skin.

Earlier, this Navy SEAL
         starts crowding my space,
                 testing my perimeter.

Rubbing at old Recon wires
        he had no business touching.

Provoking.

Poking.

Trying little doors
       to see which one

       had a temper behind it.

I stayed calm
  while I was alone.

Or what passes
   for calm
   when the blood

   is already checking exits.

But then you and BFF arrived.

And somehow
    that made it worse.

Not because of you.

Never because of you.

Because suddenly
        the line I was holding
        had witnesses I loved.

Because suddenly
        my body started
        doing the old math:

        protect,
        posture,

        don’t blink,
        don’t give ground.

Because somewhere
        in that ugly little air
        two men were waiting

        for the other one to make the first move.

So the second move
   could feel righteous.

That’s the part
       I hate writing.

That’s the part
       I hate recognizing in myself.

Not anger.

Anger I understand.

Not even adrenaline.

Adrenaline is just
          the body
    pulling alarms
   before the mind
  finishes reading
          the room.

It’s the wanting
     for permission
     I don’t want…

     to be capable of wanting.

The clean excuse.

The first move
    that would let
    the worst part of me

    call itself justified.

So I left.

Early.

Fast enough
     to keep the night
     from becoming
     a version of itself

     nobody needed.

That was right.

I believe that.

I had to get out
  before my nervous system
  talked my judgment

  into something stupid.

But then you worried.

You both did.

And I shrugged it off.

Not because
    it didn’t matter.

Because it mattered
           too much
  and I didn’t have
       a safe place
    in my own chest
      to put it yet.

Because rage
        doesn’t make me eloquent.

Because adrenaline
        turns care
        into pressure

        if I don’t catch it in time.

Because I wanted
        to be alone
        with the storm
        until the storm

        ran out of weather.

But that’s not
    what it looked like.

It looked like
   you reached toward me
   and I stepped away.

It looked like
   your worry
   was one more thing

   I didn’t want in the room.

It looked like
   I saved you a seat,
   then made you feel
   like there wasn’t
   one beside me

   when it mattered.

And I’m sorry.

Again.

Still.

Not the kind of sorry
    that asks to be forgiven on schedule.

Not the kind
    that explains itself
    until the explanation

    tries to become an alibi.

Just sorry.

For the shrug.

For the silence.

For making
    the safer exit
    feel like I was exiting you.

I don’t like
  that side of me.

That’s one reason
       I avoid crowds.

Not because
    I think I’m better
    than the room.

Because sometimes—
        I know exactly
        how much room I need

        between me and the man I refuse to become.

Last night, I found that room by leaving.

Good.

Last night,
     I hurt you
     on my way out.

Not good.

Both things are true.

Both things
     have to stay true

     if I’m going to learn anything from this.

No first move.

No second.

No victory.

Just the empty spot
     where the night
     was supposed
     to be easy,

     and me,
     sitting with
     the hard part…

     of being sorry.