Monday, December 08, 2014


I am not the first person you have loved.

Though pretending would be easy; you are not the first person I have looked upon with a mind full of always and a mouth uttering promises I don't know that I can keep.

Our armor, held together by scars issued by the lies of those before, weakens.
Voiceless words erect the wall between us.

I want to whisper them in your bed.
Scream them in your kitchen.
Cry them in your bathroom.
Celebrate them in your arms.

Instead I chew them.
Cutting them to pieces.
Gnawing them endlessly.
Ignoring the bitter taste they leave on my tongue begging to be spit at your feet.

Their flavor lingers on the lips of the man I kiss each night.

1 comment:

Smerdyakov said...

I was out with some female friends who keep me around mostly as a source of disdain (as they're "in the know" as to my own predilections for inciting marital discord). As usually happens when wine bottles empty, their subtext became less and less subtle before most of them blurted out an obvious question in unison, given the trail destruction I've left in my wake....

"Why do you hate women so much?"

Before I could craft a disarming reply, the woman who had been silent to that point answered for me while casually swirling a glass of Malbec.

"He doesn't hate women. He hates men."