You were never my lover.
Let alone a confidant.
Even less, a caring partner.
You were a fraud.
I shared my home and my proclivity with a stranger.
A thief who slowly crept into the hallways of my mind and rooms of my bosom while I was distracted by false benevolence;
Who stole the very essence of who I was.
Peddling off the riches of my vivacity and emptying my soul bare;
Shaming me for not being of enough value to you after doing so.
A heist of my heart.
Only leaving behind the smoke stains of your cigarettes on the walls of my integrity and your spilled whisky on the floors of my femininity.
Declaring my existence condemned and unworthy for the care of any other by way of the poorly painted warning signs that you’ve used to board up entry to me.
But you’ve underestimated my garden and its ability to sustain.
In time, it will grow wild while I’ve been left to be forgotten.
In time, its roots will establish through harsh winters and its blooms will burst with life every spring.
One sweet summer, someday, a true lover will brave the foliage that keeps me hidden in an abandoned home and take care to tame that garden.
With intention and gentleness they’ll wash away the paint you carelessly spilled in your haphazard attempt to devalue me.
They’ll make their way slowly through each room of the heart you emptied and destroyed;
Repairing and replenishing the splendor that once existed in me.
They’ll call me down from the attic and wipe away the dried salt from tears that lingered for you, and pull the cobwebs of doubt in myself you wove from my mind.
They’ll see the beauty and worth in me and hold close the rarity they’ve discovered.
I will survive you.
I am surviving you now.
One day, you’ll walk by the woman you took for granted as she sits in the garden that protected her and revel in my prowess.
You’ll offer a wave in hopes to be welcomed again, and your own heart will swell with regret when I don’t care to recall the memory of you or acknowledge your existence at all.
an invitation to witness the most sacred parts of me 