Get ready, because shit’s about to get real sad.
We started off in Paris to ring in my golden birthday,
25 on the 25th—this will never happen again.
The lights of the city, the smell of the pastries, the sound of falling footsteps on cobblestones, c’est parfait.
Two months go by—
Little did I know, his secrets laid hidden back home,
beneath a mattress topper disguised as a bed and no headboard to be found—how thinly veiled and cheap.
Behind false tears and platitudes he pleaded that he didn’t mean to cheat; didn’t mean to lose my trust; didn’t mean to do it. He held me that night and told me—this will never happen again.
Two months go by —
He wants us to be more open; he wants to explore; he wants to sweep his infidelity beneath the rug he picked up off the corner of Wilshire and Hobart. But I can’t let go—
can’t let go of the why, the when’s, or the how many’s. As the questions pour out, he can’t seem to fathom his why’s, his when’s, and his how many’s.
“I thought you were over this?” he yelled.
Two weeks go by —
We sat in silence.
We were broken before we started.
Neither hand of mine was held,
no comfort offered as I shattered before him—
his gaze directed elsewhere:
to the ceiling, to
the kitchen, to
We irreparably parted ways, the damage done and the dust not yet settled. I swore to myself—this will never happen again.