Perhaps i’m to blame for these woes…
A misery i’ve learnt to caress through the cold,
for a man that never sleeps but creeps.
A belligerent attitude at dawn,
and a haughty nature at dusk.
These wrinkles now speak of my pain-
a closed facade to cover reality as
he flirts with different women,
almost invisible to my presence.
Yes, i’ve aged; these wrinkles on my skin are my glories,
the stretch-marks on my skin are clauses of a history
told through years of child-birth, hard work and being his wife.
These greys are my wisdom now clouded with muffled breaks.
A beautiful love cherished o’er years as we lingered in winsome abyss,
coded heart language only we understood…
Promises of forever as we exchanged our vows that sunny Saturday afternoon…
I was young, beautiful and vibrant then-
a charisma that my husband understood
as i swayed my hips in shades of pink and purple…
Now, lost through the smoke in essence of
a bland man as he provokes me with that silly whim.
My husband is no longer mine.
He walks to the front door wringing his hands,
very doubtful of his character and conscience…
like a thief; he is always peering through key holes
and quick to check to ensure that no one is watching him.
Somehow his man pants no longer fit as they used to…
an anxiety shown through the fading and scratching.
He no longer recognizes the best cuisine or gets close to taste…
The sparkling floors somehow are neither invisible…
nor the properly washed and pressed clothes.
Once an effervescent character, now wretched…
I heard that he bought one of his trophies
a beautiful house adorned with crimson splatters-
with waiting maids to match, almost fading to
the dull patterns that now mock my leaking bedroom roof.
No wonder he creeps instead of sleeping…
He warms to a comfortable, rich bed…
A young, curvy, beautiful woman instead of
an older folded skin, stinking death and menopause.
I’m his reality, and these young women are his fantasy.
Best of both worlds- but my misery in old age.
Now i’m stuck with shady music- pouting my mouth,
clenching my fists like a black widow…
sneering and jeering at young beautiful women for
i imagined that their deep fed his throbbing bit with passion.
I’ve put my faith in a cauldron and professed my sojourner truth
in hope that one day he’ll wake and return to reality.
For now, i’ll drown in orgasmic poetry and
melt down to Marvin Gaye’s, “Let’s get it on”…
Imagine that he’s around;
live through this moment waiting on reality or fate.
Whatever happens first…
Till he returns to this old bitter soul….
Till he returns…
If he returns…
My cheating Husband.
Reality or fate, alive or dead.
My cheating Husband.