Perhaps he was justified in his presumption.
If only I had more proof otherwise,
I would be able to flaunt in his face
His wrongness, his assumptions falsified.
Yet I have nothing to my name.
Simply, everything I love has left me.
Men cannot compete, women become bored;
I am unsustainable.
My room finds me in comfort like no other,
My sheets and pillows pretend to be my lover.
While I weep, sullied by his truthful words,
I have no friendships any longer that are
Just mine.
Who alone would belong to me, and I to them?
I could be a good person to a heart split wide open.
Yet my girls have left me so swiftly, so quietly,
And he stands with a familiar pointed finger,
Jabbing into my chest with harshness.
For who am I, if I am not his lover?
His project?
His understudy mother?
He claimsâabandoned, daunted, and pitiful.
Perhaps he is right in his foul assumptions.
I do not have a hand next to me to hold,
Be it friend or lover,
I have not one.
E.