She has always been a lover. A beauty too.
She clung onto places so dark her smile shifted
desperate to be loved back, she wouldn't let go.
She lent her radiance to the night until it embraced her
She looked up so expectantly until it kissed her back.
He was what she wanted
but the tears he forced out of her eyes
are never what she deserved.
He didn't fill her mouth with his fist
or cover the pretty blush on her cheek with his palm
he sharpened his words and cut her with that,
the words he spat at her cut me too.
Beauty shouldn't weep.
I, with my too big nose and my too small eyes, I'd cry for her.
Her job was always only to caress the insecurity off my heart.
He may have broken her smile so she left to fix it.
Yes I remember now, that's why she left.
I never forget that she's a lover,
naive because she believed him when his fist was full of her hair
and he drew promises of a future on her stomach with his tongue
a tongue that nudged her closer to the subject of hushed conversations between women with hunched backs and knowing eyes who could spell o-r-g-a-a-a-s-m with their legs closed, and virgins with fingers buried deep inside their own bodies.
Bitter because she didn't care if her lilting laugh, and the breasts that fed a writer made grown men weep if only to have her look at them again.
She would be the one breaking hearts now.
She was 20 and that's how it began. She left her smile with him and moved out with his heart.
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