I dreamt you sat in my father’s chair, your throat bound silent with something I couldn’t name. And as I watched you sitting there, I couldn’t help but still take the blame. You glared up, misreading the note and the room, thinking I’d whisper words I still couldn’t say. But while standing, I saw your type of man, and knew you were never gonna pray or pay. We felt the air change in this strange room, had our chests been storms, they would have been a monsoon. And just as soon as I thought I would swoon, I heard the murmur moving throughout the platoon. That’s when I knew what I now know: when you didn’t ask me not to go, I could no longer stay. All we could never say aloud, it has already hushed an entire crowd. So I’m dubious now of your mood or the room… True love or sheer madness, it all ends in doom.
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).