When he was good, he kissed me so I couldn’t run.
Paralyzing my power, swept up in an undertow of secrets and lies.
When he was good, I was no longer magical.
He cast a spell of confusion and mind-fuckery that I will withhold from admitting to my future daughter.
When he was good, he was difficult to satisfy, and so he devoured me, buffet-style, like I was an option.
When he was good, I tried to leave him, but he sought me out like Girl Scout cookies…
And when I confronted him about the missed calls and the incognito way he responded to texts,
he convinced me it was a wrong number,
paperwork left behind,
or his child calling to say, “I love you.”
When he was good, I was a mess.
The kind of mess that has a hard time admitting the truth to itself, let alone others.
When he was good, we pretended to be great.
I baptized my lips with false prophesy to friends about the future plans I knew we’d never live up to and the nature of our love which looked more like a natural disaster.
When he was good, he had that paper,
so I couldn’t complain.
When he was good, I had no reflection,
longing to wear him like skin and be apart of his language.
When he was good, I became a stranger to myself
and worship looked more like the Book of him, than the Him who died.
When he was good, I was lost, and so I followed his lead to compromise,
and all absence of you-know-you-know-better and Mary’s first, My Life.
but if I told the truth, and nothing but the truth,
so help me God…
When he was good,
was the only thing that was…