my tears are stronger than 100 miles of wild fires you started.

In my dreams

I finally summon all of me
Back from him
Back from the history

The sin that caused a great death within me
I summon myself back

from the stories he tells at 3am
My body back from his grip
My confidence from his weakness

My voice returns and my lungs expand
The breath he took is now back inside me
I take it all back
The spark that turned wild.
I’ve used my sadness
Cried tears of shame and bottled them up over time tucked them into my ribs my face my stomach and back
The anger aches to come out

That barren land

The wilderness you led me to

Thousands of days and you called it paradise
Just you and me
And all that wandering
And all that shame

The barren land is now dust and ugly

I can see it clearly
and finally when I walk away the plains they are my own. I reclaim my territory. I go towards a new land without him leasing me a stray.
I take back with my sorrow just like that

I take back my joy







I am painting over this with fresh ink
I’ll paint to erase what was once permanently in place




Some men paint you without even looking for the truth. They just want you to shut your mouth and indulge in the fantasy of themselves being great

All powerful

And I

They write you like they invented you.the physical the essence the soul of you. They will write songs and poetry to show you that they created you and then they except me to give them a gold star or my body bc of this. The will paint you with their eyes closed what your future looks like in oil on canvas they romanticize themselves loving me by possessing me to the point of a cartoon a romanced version of their perversions. The way sun doesn’t sting at first the way it taste sweet going down but slowly kills you after. He is always calling me a muse to justify what I am to him, simply a fantasy, a thing, a creation of Gods own image he can’t fathom the entirety of me so he never asks me about me he tells me about me. And never once does he notice I too am watching him watch me. And I allowed this to go on many times as sort of a science project. Being a muse is to be a well for men to draw from and in turn try and recreate what I am to serve them. Turns out there’s no exception for allusive secretive obsessive men. They aren’t special at all.In the meanest way possible they are average. All air. Like a parrot they echo your tone like a charlatan they promise you marvelous things. And to think a man could be so stupid to never once consider women are superior and see through this.generations past all the way back to Delilah, we’ve been knowing what you are.




I remember meeting men that weren’t like the users the charlatans. And I have memories of readjusting my posture slightly because although better than the last man. A man is a man. Like a boxer before his match I loosen my neck stretch breathe focus and decide if my opponent is worth it. Mostly it was just entertainment but years later it’s pure rage.
I was in love once

I never had to adjust a thing

I just was

And I will love him until I’m dead unless someone else makes me forget I even cried over him for an entire decade. rejecting each other like polite people taking turns. I don’t regret telling him I loved him 12 years later only for him to respond in silence



For new men I just think

Don’t look for me back there
You’ll find fragments of who I was and who you wanted me to be.



I want the man I am in love with because we know each others history




How can someone love me without knowing me all through my twenties?



How