I went to men looking for a home, for refuge, for a haven,
things they
didn’t have, and couldn’t give me
but they
were all excellent liars, secret keepers,
fact stretchers,
and gaslighters
I went to
men looking for comfort, all I found was abuse
even now at
37 I meet a man for the first time, and feel I’ve already heard all his lies
walking the
tight rope of my heart praying never to fall again
never, in that
misogynistic pit of male privilege,
I went to
men looking for love
now I avoid
them, like I do dark, creepy roads
I buried my disappointing
encounters, the way I imagine nameless infants are buried; a mourning for
something that never was, a ceremonial grief for what could have been.
