I put on that dress you like and I went down to the river.
I waded in deep. I pretended I was brave.

I pretended I could care less I was wearing that dress,
even though I knew I was ruining it. Sometimes

you have to be willing to ruin your present
in order to secure your future and I

was ruining that dress. You
were organizing some cross-continental

cultural exchange between an orphanage
and a donut shop—it would never have worked,

but how could we have known? We were pioneers
of a dire endeavor. Like our predecessors,

we didn't know there would be so many ways
to upset a wagon. The trail ends here, in this valley,

where I put on that dress and went down to the river.
I wanted to drown. I hoped you would never

have a date to a wedding for as long as you lived.
I wanted to get to a heaven from which I could watch

you miss me, but if you didn't miss me,
I didn't want to watch. Fair is fair.

You did the same thing to me
that you did to those orphans.

I've got a swingset in my yard that's missing
its swings. I've got a closet filled with laughter

and no occasion to wear any of it.
Give me my life back, I said,

underwater, so that no one could hear
or help me. The Oregon Trail ends here,

in your home state, in a valley,
near a river. You think you swim

more than I do because you're less afraid
of drowning, but I'm not afraid of drowning

by accident. I'm afraid of pockets,
where I can put the stones I've got.