She wanted to write
some lines to make him cry—
he'd stopped listening to words she said,
stopped caring about her thoughts,
didn't notice her lonely sighs
—or anything else—
unless it was time
for her to strip naked and act excited;
which was happening less and less.

She wanted just for a moment
for him to look at her the way he used to—
when she used to think he gave a damn
about something more than his career
or the way she looked (in public)—
before she was a live-in hooker.

She wanted him to love her again—
just for a moment—
the way he seemed to all that time ago.
Like those nights where she was more important
than Sportscenter and imported beer,
or another night out on the town
with his friends who looked at her
in a strangely familiar way.

When she couldn't
prop her world up on lies
—anymore—
she let loose the pain she kept hidden deep inside,
she opened herself up and let the hurt flow through,
she wanted to write lines that would make him cry—
with rage in her eyes,
and empty in her heart,
scrawling her soul-daggers
with a razor-tipped quill
dipped in crimson.

01/09/2002

Posted on 01/09/2002
Copyright © 2024 D. Xavier Bari