(c) 11/14/2021
I can’t shake him, my ex. Twenty-years
after the divorce he still occupies my dream houses,
knocking legs off the table, littering his foul moods
for me to pick up.
I am tired of his consistent returns, his heart
a shoddy foundation, mold and cracks up every wall,
the crawl filled with stagnant water that will never
make its way to an aquifer.
My Ex has paid for nothing.
On his good days he struts, proud
of my accumulation he still feels is due him
simply because he chose me as his mark,
some star-crossed Rapunzel who let him in.
See how He shies from open window and doors,
clinging to archways?
Finally, I suspect he fears my dormant strength.
The thunderbolts I could summon.
The volcanic rock 60 feet below.
If only I weren’t still trying to be nice.
I have let the Universe shake it in its own time
refusing to own either agency or anger.
So many disappointing men and I’ve made sure
they all land softly,
nothing broken,
blind to any light that might come in.
A false wholeness.
The promise of a brighter future hinges
on my ex being gone. Now it seems that my house
has become my heart’s grave.
Come daylight - how afraid we all are
to draw the Tarot Tower. Epiphanies hurt.
The familiar, whether wanted or not
dislodges and then what is there?
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