that’s not love,
but it’s something.

gross embellishments,
weaponized truths,
little red voices
that told me to run,
not to trust you—

like when you’d flirt
with a stranger
right under my nose.

i trusted these things with her,
my whole soul,
an exercise to connect,
to heal, to understand—
not to hurt.

but she loaded them in a gun
to kill you if she could—
ignoring the confessions of love,
not reckless,
calculated,
weighing two things:

how much forgiveness i had left,
to watch, before my eyes,
the only thing i held dear
destroyed—
and how little it would take
to scare you away,
excuse you,
so you
never had to take a swing for me.

that’s not love,
but it’s something.

—

nothing new.
nothing there
i didn’t say to your face.

all your anger
aimed at me.
all her anger
aimed at you.

that’s not math,
but it’s something.

—

how could you quit me so quickly?