if my body is a temple,
then you've desecrated it.
touched me with irreverent hands.
said            

'woman'

like it was a heresy
in itself
to breathe
and feel beautiful
in the form I have no control over.

have you forgotten
where you came from?
you have made martyrs
out of saints.
out of your mother,
and her mother,
and her mother,
so far back
that you no longer recognize
a goddess
when you see one.

the womb is a place of worship.
every curve,
every flaw,
every edge
of her body
a hymn waiting to be written.
we have made sacrifices
upon sacrifices
to appease the entitlement,
to cover the shame
they make us feel
when they say

'woman'

at an altar.
at a shrine
men made
to make themselves
idols.

'woman'
she's somebody's daughter.

'woman'
somebody's sister.

'woman'
somebody's mother.

'woman'
somebody's lover.

'woman'
somebody's friend.

but first,
she was somebody.

out of dozens
hundreds
thousands
you chose me
peeled back my skin
exposed me
you must've liked
what you found there
because then
you gutted my heart
greedily
as if you had never
tasted anything
so sweet before
I was not ripe
for the taking
but you took
and took
kept taking
acted surprised
to find me empty
when you're the one
who hollowed me out
objectified me
devoured me

I met the lover
you replaced me with
at our favorite cafe.
do you remember it?
the one where you claimed
I was your only?

Did you know
she takes her coffee
with sugar,
heavy on the cream?
Just like you.
It seems you were
made for each other.

She's lovely enough,
I suppose.
If you like that sort of thing.
A beautiful, surprised laugh,
especially when I told her
I prefer my coffee black.
I didn't tell her that
the bitterness tastes like
my memories of you.

it heals as much as it hurts,
but prefers watching you bleed
to stitching you up.

the day I tell you I love you
it will be strong,
loud like thunder
rattling your soul.
you will feel it
in every bone
in your body.
you will know it,
greet it
like crickets serenade
the coming storm
with their violin song.
I will spell it for you
in the moonlit sky,
scattering stars
so that the last thing
you see before falling asleep
are constellation promises,
the last thing you taste
are goodnight kisses
lingering on your lips
like the last breaths
of dusk.
but for now,
I will tell you I love you
in the words I do not say,
the questions you do not ask,
and in the clear skies
we take for granted.

misery loves company.
isn't that why you're here?

did you love him
before they came to you?
when they asked you
what it would take
to put your lover in the ground?

did it rip you apart
to deceive him?
the first,
the second,
the third time
he lied to you?
the final time
you lied to him?

delilah,
did he love you?
or had he kissed
too many women
to remember what
your name tasted like
on his lips?

perhaps,
you loved each other once.
perhaps,
the night you held the blade
to his hair,
you ran your fingers through it
one last time.
pressed kisses to the lids of eyes
that would be gouged out,
tears marking a path
on the wrists
that would be shackled.

they don't tell your story
like that.
was it hard, delilah?
choosing your people
over your lover?
knowing that he
would make the same choice?
realizing that maybe
love was equal parts merciless
and hopeless?

delilah,
were you not,
in the end,
a prisoner too?