When He Was Good


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.

It’s unfortunate,

but if I told the truth, and nothing but the truth,
so help me God…

When he was good,

the dick

was the only thing that was…


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