Are you cheating on me?
We once fell in love, but have I fallen so far
that my words cannot reach you anymore?
Was my sexuality too asymptomatic for your hyper-realistic fantasy?
Do I spit or swallow all the words I’ve choked on?
I’ve said it before,
“Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, it just has to touch you where hands can’t,”
so were my love poems to you not soft enough? Not rough enough?
Or were they simply not long enough,
not thesaurized enough to supersede your ego?
How do we begin to forgive ourselves for all that we did not say?
Inspired by Warsan Shire