Weaving lies from lips that never parted, never breathed
her loom twists syllable after syllable of mine
into a tumbling skein of sensical syntax
that graces dozens of ears that do not hear.
“But she, she is subhuman!
She’s lost her essence to the world, perhaps,
or to a cesspool of her own morose doings.
She refuses to learn that it is she
who does this to herself, and no one else.”
Were she to will it so,
my days would stretch out like threadbare cloths
over a frame that tightens until my mind unravels,
and there would be needles pricking,
darkening my eyes as well as my heart
in an indelible pattern,
marking me as
Yes, were she to will it so,
I would have scarlet letter of shame
stitched into my skin,
so that all who saw me would know
I was his,
but I am no longer,
because I am damaged,
and I am unmendable.
But she can’t will it so.
So she weaves lies from the words
of a woman she has never met
will never know
and will never understand,
and her cries are fed to the night
while all other ears have moved toward the dawn.