Pain

Never loved, always lusted.

An object of desire, to warm his bed

A body laid down,

Never lifted.

Love walked past, its shadow falling on everyone but me.

Here I sat,

Waiting.

Yearning.

Hoping.

Bitter is the patience for those who will never choose me.

I know they don’t care.

I know they won’t stay.

And while I’m peeling back the layers of my soul;

They only see my clothes -

Sliding to the floor.

But the alternative is loneliness,

Its familiar aching strikes me with fear,

So instead I close my eyes,

and say what they expect me to.

No matter what I did, men thought I was too much.

Too loud.

Too invested.

Too caring. Too much.

Pieces of me scattered - it always ended the same.

Me on my own, empty soul, body used.

Pain.

Now, it's a game. I remind myself of the rules.

Study men and what they want -

Dreaming’s for fools.

But my whispers are too loud, because they hear them and leave.

I’ve mastered being the fleeting woman.

I alone grieve.

I mourn my younger self, who flourished under naivete -

Of a four-bedroom house, a white-picket fence -

A man who loved me for me.

But while I was looking up at him, gazing into his eyes,

His were on my lips, his fingers trailing up my thigh.

Never loved, always lusted.

Empty soul, a body hollowed -

Like a forest emptied of its song.

Pain.