My diary.
Of all the things you took
My money, my trust, my confidence
This is what stung most:
That you felt you had a right,
That you were entitled
To parts never exposed to anyone
(the darkness unforeseen, unexpected, unresolved)
And that was not enough;
Then you stole my poetry
And used it to serenade the next
Soul mate, the next chapter,
The next forever-after-lie;
And the words dried up,
I had no words
No rhyme.
And then one day I watched
The sun set itself to sleep
And the waves caressing the sand
In a waltz with the wind.
And I knew:
That there were more words,
That there was more poetry,
more rhyme,
That would never
be
yours.

Copyright Hiraeth 2016