The Other Woman

You rested your head on my lap and I watched the scar along your chin expand as you stretched your mouth open to a joyous, greedy laugh.

You were so callous, so casual, so greedy for me. And more.

I made you dinner, held your hand as you sipped on cool white wine. You watched me chew and smiled.
You must have loved me. You never did.

Two years of giving, giving, giving, like the waves into the sea, stretching myself wide and open to accommodate your need for space, quiet and me.

Not one photograph, one memory I could hold onto. I knew completely, fully, that I was special.
You are special, you told me, as you pulled me into your open arms.

I sat on the bench outside, wrote ‘you’re stronger than you think’ onto my skin, but it was no use. You had me, I was your compass, your Northern star.

I made you a sandwich. Introduced you to all my friends. You helped yourself to my wine, me, my kindness. I resented it.

You must have loved me. In the way you pressed your lips to my forehead as I collapsed in a fever of defeat, in your fear of me. Your fear for me. Your jealousy. I was yours only but you never mine.

You wrapped my robe around your naked body, towering over me. I watched, knowing this battle was never fought; you had won the minute I let you in that night, stumbling drunken into my room, into my arms stretched wide.

You pulled me close and said a quiet 'No' as I cried into your shirt. You could always leave. You always did. But I was your home. Your peace of mind.

I was the other woman.