Lies

I can’t be his anymore

now

he is hollow,

filling himself with a new woman

who is telling him how to exist,

 

I imagine her whispering foreign folktales to him

lips planting plots of happily ever after

black hair curling around her chin, inviting him

to indulge his ego – that broken

thing

it would love to wrap itself in her

she doesn’t know he loves long hair

the kind he can braid, run his fingers through

and hide his face in at night

 

I want to tell her — keep her hair short,

to be vigilant against his hollowness,

to reject the idea that two shall become one,

because if that is true,

he will never be hers anyways

but

I can’t be his anymore,

so he might as well lie about loving her folktales,

her old traditions,

he might as well lie about respecting the past,

 

She doesn’t know the years I spent recklessly

knocking on his squares,

insisting the world is not flat

showing him how the brainwashed– love, feeling clean

and he was afraid to get messy…

so I spent years taking him inside me, when the moon was high

insisting love is not abstract and he can come

to new conclusions,

 

I spent years unraveling his past,

using pillows to thaw the cold heart

that confessed violence was always an option

that warned me to behave

So

I promised that I loved his devil face

enough to kiss it,

to cradle it,

to whisper the truth in his ears

I loved him enough to match the intensity

of his inner demons, and oh I made them

moan

 

I conquered all of his fears

with myself

 

feeding his mind

with scraps of my own

using my body as a playground

for his insecurity,

soothing his spirituality with persistent

logic- administering debates like medicine

for his toxic way

of existing

 

he called me a force of nature because I preferred

basking in the sun instead of him

 

he used to call me his world too,

as if he could never live apart

as if he needed me to sustain him

as if my whirlwinds kept him breathing and my landscape

filled him up, as if my valley was the only fertile place

for him to pollute

 

but I can’t be his anymore

he is not a god

I am not a world

I am not sustenance

 

I want to tell this new woman

she is not sustenance

he is not a god or a king or even noble

he just loves long hair,

the kind he can braid, run his fingers through,

hide himself in at night

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