In this jungle
they had me entranced
by the sin of vanity,
of assumption
of belonging.
The ego
surrendering resilience
for security.
I prayed
as they showed me,
but nothing came to me.
For a moment I existed
inside of a bubble.
I gave up my white dress
to live with some purpose.
I thought it was best
or that I somehow deserved it.
He said “I know everything.
“Just try to surprise me.”
I had something boiling,
some kind of fantasy
where his honesty
was love for me.
Perhaps it was indeed.
I’ve done nothing worse
and quite a bit better,
so why can’t I get her
distaste from my head?
I wrote you a letter
with a solemn pledge,
but you gave her your hand instead.
Now in my past
are dozens of spirits
whose love I had gardened
with obsessive fire.
None of them last
or remember my passion.
Despite my fixation
she called me a liar.
Despite all the moments
in those days and these
when I think of her face
and struggle to breathe.
How we painted together.
How you danced in all weather.
The gold in your hair and your skin.
Your desire to be thin
and how much you needed him.
We decorated each other
and walked in the rain
espousing our pain. Why can’t it sustain?
Why then does anything begin?
Is the difference between love and abandonment
merely the “when”?
They tell me
all things come to an end.
They tell me
I am my only friend.
I am the only universal,
the only continuing thread.
And though tonight I’ll lie in your bed,
it’s like you
slipped
and
I slept in your stead.