267/365 To the Other Woman 4

To the other woman,

The first time he mentioned your name,
I imagined something more impressive
than this.

In fact,
the first time he even told me you existed,
I had to think I'd be looking at someone who could even fake my stature.

Child,
I bet your frail bones creak more than the bed when he makes love to you.,
You are more wet behind the ears than he could ever get you wet in-between your legs,
and your hands

are nowhere near long enough to do the job mine's do.

But when I watched your tiny hand
replace mine in his
my sweat took on colors
and a mind of it's own.

Rush delivered itself to the places his torso would miss the most.

Like the palms of my hands.
I curved my wrist
and let Salvador slip to my fingertips
and traced the places of my room where he left his scent
to leave these concrete reminders that he had ever been there in the first place
so that I wouldn't drive myself crazy
swiping at memories like mirages.

And if you ever catch yourself
wishing your hands could get as sweaty as mine (do)
when you feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck,
I want you to pretend.

Pretend you are familiar with slow touch of a man
who can make you orgasm with just the heat in his fingertips,
a caress with a butterfly effect
setting off tidal waves miles down my spine,

Your spine slouches under a weight it is not (yet) mature enough to carry,

wear his love like a burden,
do you grow tired of bending over?

showing men your pink thong
beneath the frilly tutu you never gave yourself
the time to grow out of.

wearing make-up and skimpy clothing
to grab the attention of men thrice your age.
What is wrong with you child?
Did your daddy not give you enough attention?

I don’t know how long you’ve known him,
rest assure,
I know him better
You will never know a man deeper than when you are forced to lay next to him without touching,
When the distance between your bodies is no longer measured in inches but the miles in his silence.
And I’ve watched you
skip around because he writes you silly little love poems
you may be his inspiration
but I taught him how to write,
how to please with three fingers.
Believe, every trick he knows
is thanks to me.

If you insist upon being with him
Know that when he says he understands
what he really means is that he feels it.
Memorize the melody in his voice,
because it won’t belong before his boa constrictor silence
makes a home around your neck,
quit your boundless skipping.

That solid ground you are so used to is only a cutting glance away from eggshells
Forget everything you thought would be your perfect ending,
because is he could really be finished with me,
he can surely grow tired of you.