My shitty poetry diary

The other women

You keep telling me "it's fun this way" over and over again when I ask why we have to sneak around.

But you never once ask me if I'm having fun.

Is it fun to you because you can act young and 'free' with me, and then return home and kiss your wife on the cheek?

Is it because our meetings are illicit?

No meaning to you, no strings on your end.

My strings hang unwoven, thinning, like twine thats holding a boulder.

Sometimes I think it's sad that the only parts of me that you ever see are explicit.

Sometimes I want you to see past my skin, see past your lust.

Is this what you're teaching me? trust?

You trust me to keep our secret sins hidden?

Just bury them in my deepest chest?

"You don't know what you're asking of me" is what you say.

But I do. I do!

You tell me that I don't understand.

You leave me ripping out my hair, strand by strand.

You leave my house, putting on your tie as you shut the door behind you.

I never even get a kiss goodbye.

I suppose those are for the first lady in line.

You've got me wrapped around your finger. Trapped in the palm of your hand.

I feel stranded on this unfaithful lawless land.

An island that you visit when you get bored of your hometown.

I'm just a loner who leaves her door open for someone who want her but doesn't actually want her.