no antidote

he was a prince when i met him.

what struck me wasn't his fist.

not that first night.

it was his kyanite eyes that capture the depth -

when they betray him for his fear,

the insecure boy beneath,

the uncertainty of welcoming a stranger,

and a subtle hope that, maybe,

this time he'll be lucky behind a nervous smile.

but if he had known me,

he would have known then

that hope and luck

so poorly substitute patience and communication.

i am post-traumatic and stressed out.

i am mostly hair-pinned,

and i made no secret of the struggles.

but we both said, "i can handle him,"

until sticks, fists, and stones broke bones,

broken phones,

and with the wrong words,

i broke his heart.

the whispers of confusion,

a faint confirmation

of the inevitable we have been running from:

he could no longer stay here,

dethroned from my open bed.

where we were killing each other.

and since he is gone,

the absence consumes me.

we both held the untouchable

so close that we both began to fade away.

i was told to let go of what i love.

let it go to let him live,

knowing that my loneliness

will give him life.

my poison-tongue has no antidote -

so fortunate and silver-plated -

except leaving,

going to the greatest of lengths,

and there, staying.