How can a picture
draw breath from me,
and wring out the blood
from my heart?
I’m going to die, I swear.
But she’s beautiful,
naked, yes,
looking out at me–
no,
at him.
Him who swore
to look at only me
To be with only me.
To make love with only me.
It’s only in his head,
I know,
but that smell of chlorine
is still there.
He still had his eyes
glued to her.
Still had his hand
doing that
which replaces a need
for a woman.
For me.
And now I can see every line,
every dip,
every fold,
every extra ounce of imperfection
on my body.
Because I am not her.
Her, who he is addicted to.
Her, who controls his lust.
Her, who’s perfect, draws him in.
Her, who he mates with
when I
am not around.
But why?
How can I feel so cheated
when she isn’t even there?
Just a picture–a frame!
A glance of bare skin–
and yet I’m hiding in the dark
wailing, pleading,
for that which I’m suppose
to already have–
for love, for love,
for love.
Because the whore
has stolen it all.
And I’m still not sure
how she did it.
Author T.S. Lowe 