Best served cold, I’ve heard:
icy, frigid, void of emotion,
calculated. Wisdom says wait,
but wisdom never knew
girl power, whispers of
what you’ll do if
that bitch shows her face.
In my mind’s eye, I see you
watching the door, hear you
missing your notes, wondering
if anyone noticed
the beads of sweat along your hairline, lined up like kindergarteners on your brow, on your lip.
They taste like tears.
I never showed, and you believed
you won a battle, swore the sweat you confused for tears tasted like my fear.
My absence a presence on your big night, my revenge a vague threat in the uncertain future, frost on the windshield while you blast cold air from the dash.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and all kinds of witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me.
I’m known as Dena Brown to the revenuers and pollsters.
MA English literature, College of Charleston
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Comments (2)
Love the twist on a “best served cold” in the final lines
A cool, haunting reflection on how silence can win the loudest battles.