It Wasn’t Your Face
We had near-passion, and but a few sweet
words, gestures, and otherworldly embraces.
But then I once again became cold, and shuddered
when I discovered what I saw wasn’t really your face.
No, really, it wasn’t your face at all. It was a mask. And a rather ugly one at that.
Are you trying to build a tiny dollhouse?
What with every single secret, fucked-up date?
Are you trying to cause disease all around
with the poison you feed us on your plates?
I fix you a meal, you throw me a knife
that lands on my back but should’ve hit your ass.
You’re stringing every girl along through the dirt–
–turns out love and tenderness was what you could never pass.
No, it wasn’t your face that came to me
that forever-ago November evening in Montclair.
Now I see that the man who I loved on the couch with
was no less than a snake, no man was truly there.
No more nights in the loft, no more culture talks
with a viper who couldn’t even explore great places.
Just pretending to be famous, too many women to count
on both hands and feet—and a haggard, deteriorating face.
– Christine Byczkiewicz
Christine’s Featured Publication Page:
Photo by Sander Sammy on Unsplash