i played poker with you in a pink dress,
and i could’ve sworn i was in love;
but not with you;
with your kindness,
and the sincerity of your recognition.
you looked in my eyes and saw a capable thing,
instead of a thing to fuck,
a thing you’re forced to pretend to love.
it is easier to sit beside a man and not be a thing they’d like,
because maybe then they’ll treat you well, maybe they’ll think you an opponent, instead of a thing they can’t ever have.
maybe that’s even worse.
maybe that’s the same as refusing to force your own eyes to fall submissive as his test yours, waiting for a break,
enraged when there’s none.
you, you were different. you laughed at my jokes, and talked to me all night, and danced with me without being nervous about it, when the time came.
i thought it was real, for a fleeting four hours, as i threw darts,
and artemis willing, she blessed me with a shot worth enough to make you dare feel impressed by a woman, but it was all an illusion.
a falsehood painted pastel.
and, when i slipped away into the night, you didn’t chase me, like i hoped you would.
you remained, content in watching me go; as if all i was was a passing tube ride, just another commute round the block.
i would’ve broken my rules for you, in hindsight.
now i’m stumbling about, waiting for an end.
passing you in halls, and sliding you a smile,
you do not reciprocate.