I am the other woman.
Not the one who's curled around your man
While you rest alone;
I'm never good enough for that.

I am the woman that he never brought home,
The woman who he left in the dust
In order to caress your skin and call you baby.

I am the woman he talks about with
Indifference
When you ask about me he just nods his head
Maybe he says I just wasn't right for him
Or maybe he lays all my habits out for you to
Scrutinize.

I am the woman who still competes with you daily,
Full of self-loathing and confusion
Wondering what you have that I don't,
Wondering what makes you the perfect woman
And me just a forgotten memory.

I am the woman who reads the adoring
Social media posts
Of your lover or spouse,
And wonders why they're not about me.
(They're never about me.)

why am i not surprised when boys cancel
their eyes averted their lips sewn tight
into a frown
“sorry” they say then deliver some *******
excuse

and i breathe it in

without any other thought except that
somehow
i brought this onto myself
the way that some people believe they cause
hurricanes or volcanic eruptions
i believe that i cause cancellations
either with my personality or with my luck
(although i’m not sure which is worse:
being broken or ******)

all i know is that it kills me
that i don’t put on makeup before
dates anymore because i won’t
waste mascara on tears won’t waste
lipstick on the edges of a shot glass
after i’m forgotten

it kills me that i don’t get butterflies
when i kiss people because if i got
butterflies anymore thousands of
species would have suffocated
inside me

My muscles do not pull my bones
You do, your fist clenched around my arm
Your mouth curved into a grimace
I will forever fall asleep to "come here *****"

My nerves do not feel my touch
All they feel
Is the dirt under your fingers
While you touch my freckle
Ignoring my obvious discomfort
And ask me if I have a boyfriend

My skin crawls without my approval
When you call me a beautiful lady
And ask what you can do for me
Or whether my boyfriend is willing to share

My eyes don't look at faces anymore
They stare at the gound
Because I am afraid
Afraid that you'll walk over and sit down
Next to me in a cafe and refuse to leave
Afraid that you'll follow me the five blocks
Home to my apartment
Afraid you'll slide into the seat next to mine on the bus
And run your hand up my thigh
Like you did to one of my friends.
Afraid you'll slip ambien into my drink
While I dance at your party.
And so I look down and watch and wait and
Listen for you in everything I do and I can confidently say

My body is not mine anymore.

this is not a love poem.
this is your smile
which appears when you're surprised
or walk into debate practice and see me
and all I can focus on is the way that your
lips curve slightly upward just for me.

these are not romantic words.
these are your eyes,
which are the color of freshly brewed dark roast
with a hint of almond  milk
and the way they stare into mine
when we're intertwined.

this is not a john green novel,
this is your mind,
which crafts universes from neurons,
and I get a chance to sit back and watch
you do magic without saying a word.

this is not a love poem.
this is complex and three dimensional
this lives and breathes and loves and
hurts outside of page and ind
this is not a love poem.

this is your poem.

I am the girl in the mirror
a wispy figure that materializes only
when you want me to.

I am nearly translucent
in the harsh fluorescent lights
of the gas station bathroom,
nervously pushing my hair out of my face
in an attempt to conceal my disarray.

You don't see me but that's okay,
because sometimes it's easier
when people don't acknowledge my existence.

It gives me time to mold,
to transform, to craft myself
in the perfect image you want to see.

Lipstick on, hair straight, nails painted, eyelashes curled,
thoughts organized in order of relevance,
anxiety suppressed to give a semblance of normalcy.

But someday,
you're going to turn around,
and instead of me you'll see
a hollow shell existing only to please society.

Will you be happy then?