I do not know your name but I have spent too much time on his instagram trying to guess it.
I didn’t find traces of you anywhere else except for the quiver in his voice when I asked him about that passionate bruise on the nape of his neck that one Monday.
I wonder if the tremble in speech when he tried to explain to me “Baby, it’s not what it looks like,” was the echo of your steps that shook his loyalty.
At 2am I lie awake thinking about you like a lover would. Which is tragic because you’ve taken my love from me.
I’d think about your hands. I’d wonder if they’re pale and soft and if they’d fall into his like a cookie dipped into hot tea, about to crumble. Then, a part of me would wish that your hands would actually crumble.
I’d think about how delicate they could be and all the things they’ve stolen from me- my man, my sleep, my self esteem.
You, silent burglar, you. You broke into my home, slept in his arms then left in the morning with his devotion.
I’d think about your lips and the landscape of his skin they’ve traced. I wonder if they have stumbled upon treacherous regions and if you’ve found my footprints and wondered what creature could’ve been there before you but shook the thought off and bravely continued your adventure anyway.
I’d think about your thighs and your eyes, your heaving breath and his lies. My nails would dig into my palms, tears a raging waterfall no one has yet to find as lovely as Niagara.
I’d bite into my bottom lip, think about how you’re probably everything I couldn’t be and cry,
Because you must’ve been beautiful
but in the end he placed your name right under mine on the list of people he forgot to apologize to. I’m sorry that the only thing he took out of the affair you two had was you for granted.
He stood in front of me, not a single mention of you as a person. Only you as body he fucked because he got too drunk.
I’m sorry that I was ever angry at you, letting my doubts tie a rope around your name- that I still don’t know- wishing to strangle you.
You and I, we’re just victims of his killer lies. He is probably somewhere else, hunting. Groping in the dark, lying to another woman, lying to himself, pretending as if we don’t exist.
He buried our emotions in a grave without a headstone so even if he came back, he could just step on us without realising.
I know the hurt you might be going through. We share more than just a similar love for one man who doesn’t deserve it. But I hope you’re asleep unlike me. And I hope you’re not wondering about her hands or her lips or her hips, because you don’t deserve this.
Neither of us do.