After so much thought of masks and onions
I thought I could peel you, slowly.
And I thought I was sharing it all, in a way.
Maybe I’d get all the way,
One day
I thought I was open
And I thought you were closed
Until one thing you did
Caught me, breathless, reeling, incomprehensibly confused.
You wrote me a poem.
But it wasn’t to me.
And I watched you craft it
And I became you
But never had I ever imagined the feelings that would follow.
Writing was mine. Writing is mine.
I hoard it, I coax it, I fiendishly scribble,
And I lock it away.
Writing is mine.
You wrote and I felt it was mine.
Incredibly selfish, I know.
All I ever thought I wanted
Was for someone to become my poem, completely.
And it happened.
But I was Alice.
And your poem was the looking glass.
And I wondered and wondered what it was that stole my breath.
You took a plunge, but it wasn’t really, not for you.
It would have been for me.
I don’t know how you knew.
Or blatant disregard of judgement that made you so openly honest?
Did you even know what you’d make me feel?
Is that even what you wanted?
It doesn’t matter.
Because the slight twang of jealousy
Had ripped through my heart.
Something I had thought was my nature
Became cold.
Before your frank, blatant, devil may care way of poetry.
And I never felt fake with my poems.
but never again.