I thought I knew better.
I had watched enough girls
walk willingly
into traps
with their eyes wide open,
swearing they could see the teeth.
So I told myself,
not me.
I have sense.
I am a grown woman,
with the hips to match,
surely somewhere inside this body
there is a functioning brain.
Then I met you.
And suddenly
my intelligence became
a rumour.
You said hello
and I started writing futures
you had never agreed to.
You said the right things
and I called you thoughtful.
You knew how to calm me
and I called you safe.
You knew exactly what to say
and I called it connection.
I saw the smoke.
I smelled it on you.
I saw the strange places.
The disappearing acts.
The things that didn't quite add up.
I saw the warnings
and called them inconveniences.
Because I had already made room for you
in a life
you had barely asked to enter.
So I rearranged the furniture.
Moved the red flags to the corner.
Covered the cracks with flowers.
Told myself
this is what couples do.
We work through things.
Idiot.
Then I heard you.
Not the version of you
that spoke to me.
The other one.
The one that wanted
to take me somewhere,
take something from me,
leave with proof
that I had been there.
And suddenly
the fog lifted.
No dramatic revelation.
No thunder.
Just clarity.
The kind that makes you wonder
how you could have been
so fucking blind.
I left quietly.
Smiled politely.
Made up an excuse.
Walked away
with whatever was left of my dignity
and the virginity of my common sense.
And on the way home
I kept hearing the things
I had told myself.
I would be careful.
Sure.
I would be different.
Of course.
I know what I'm doing. The plans are in order.
Oshey, architect.
I was in love.
Girl, bye.
Maybe I wasn't stupid.
Maybe I just wanted
the story I had created
more than I wanted
the truth standing in front of me.
Maybe that's the embarrassing part.
Not that I loved you.
Not that I trusted you.
But that for a while,
I looked into a mirror
and couldn't recognise
the woman making excuses
for you.
So tell me,
how do I look?
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