Write
Write, but not about him.
Not of the way my ground sways
Not of the cruelty in cowardice
Not of the words dripping with guilt
Slicing my skin where they land.
Not of my silent reply.
But how to not write of you, my love,
When all memories are shaped like you,
Sitting sourly on my tongue,
Making every out-breath
Bitter.

Who would take
a woman's child-fears
and so carelessly
rekindle them?
Surely only one
as powerless as those smiling pigtails,
one who has never learned
what it is to be human.
How I pity you
every time
the wind plays with my hair.

I am holding
my ground together
whilst all your masks peel off.

how could I explain...
the angle of the poet's eyes
the shape of her lips
how her hand is placed
the lines between the lines between the lines
the cold roar that surrounds you
when you walk around her words
and knowing
without a doubt
that you share the same fate

I trusted
you would forever be
my soft watered song.

It took days,
only days,
for me to uncover
all you pretend you are not,
and all I do not
have to be a part of.
I smile for myself,
weep for those
who never even knew.

Yes, my love,
I weep for you.