Dear Lover,
I have found that horrifying
moment
when the realization hits
someone doesn’t deserve you
whole
or three quarters
half
or even twenty-five percent
and yet you
have been settling again
trying on love in the dressing room,
or, at least, its mask
and you had to pay
with a backhand aimed to break your tongue
and a slap to silence your spirit
I have never known a sword to be as sharp
as the interest of a jealous boy
or the edges of a broken heart