Scissors

Our falling out
began when I first fell into your arms.

You spun words over the web,
capturing me in a cacoon and tucking me in tightly
(tighter than those fucking jeans you wore so proudly)
after I tore away from the threads of a lie.

I had learned long ago to take opportunities,
and there sat one, right on your shoulder,
like a pillow, inviting me to take comfort
and turn my back on everything.

She dared you.

Those words I read never came from your mouth,
just your crafty little fingers, tapping away.
But your mouth reeked of everything you never said,
had never mentioned, had never spoken.

That first kiss was like my first impression of you:

Young. Shallow. Fast. Thin. Annoying.

But once again, I ignored it.

As you chased her away, I chased after you.
And even though I knew otherwise,
you had me on a string.

Did I satisfy you? Did I fulfill the womanly role
that you always speak of?
(You seem to be sarcastic about it,
but I have a feeling that you really believe it
deep down.)
When I straddled your poor excuse for a man’s body,
did you feel triumphant?
Powerful? Masculine?
To me, you were still nothing but an adolescent boy
fumbling around with the fantasies of
nakedness,
blowjobs,
and unhooking bra straps correctly.

But my own raging battle of hormones
striked their spears
into my conscience,
disabling it.

I wrapped myself around your tongue
that twisted beautiful words
into narcissism.
With perfect teeth, I bit your lips
that deformed philosophies
into bigotry.

And the whole time,
you had this sick grin on your face.
But no Listerine could wash it away.
(Left open on the counter,
spilled onto my bathroom floor
in blue, blue, blue.)
It would’ve slowly come back anyway.

And then you stopped,
untangled our legs,
and stood up.
Bored.

Degrade me! O, my conscience cried out,
defeated by those spears that left in victory with their wielders.
Open the eyes of all who know me, let them gasp with wonder!
May they not describe me with words of
Purity?
Innocence?
Goody-goody?

I am nothing but a whore, I later said to her.
A dirty, fucking whore.

But I did it again.

And again.

Soon, I felt nothing.

I gained nothing.

I was a servant to a master,
a master of just a few similar philosophies
and nothing more.

(And all this time he watched,
“Fuck, I wish I was single.”
Thank goodness he wasn’t.
It would’ve become a two-for-one night, for all I know.)

I left you there and crawled back upstairs,
crawled into a ball of shame,
as you crawled into the scenes of your movie, your other world,
unaffected.

I hate you.

I hope those motherfucking snakes on that motherfucking plane
poison you with the venom of common courtesy.