To Be Read Aloud, but Maybe Not at My Funeral

I am attracted to 
that which is bad for me.  
Fried foods.  Liquor.  
A certain woman.  

None of which are 
actually bad, when used 
as directed, although, 
unlike fried foods 
and liquor, a woman is 
never to be used.  

In the space between my heart 
and my head, there is 
a disconnect, wider than 
the space that borders hell. 
The space between my heart 
and my imagined heaven.  

It was never that a woman 
was bad for me, it was that 
I would not let go of 
my own bad, first.  Needed 
to give that up, without 
a certain woman strong enough 
to take it all away.  

And it has never true.  

I mean the part about 
the bad in me being taken 
away, not the part about 
a woman being strong, 
and not the part about 
my imagined heaven.  

I think the closest thing 
there is to my imagined 
heaven is a woman, 
a certain woman 
who, if she could love me, 
could love the bad in me, 
and then it would not be 
use, it would be share.  

We could share 
each other’s bad away.  
But this is fiction, just like 
my imagined heaven, and not 
the space between my heart 
and my head.  

The space that borders hell.