By Pilar Campos
I was naïve, begging for a heavenly solution.
Pay attention to
the terror inside that begets your poison,
your vitriol, the way you used to say,
“Get used to being lonely, or you will pay.”
That terror is palpable when I stand next to you.
Do your finely prepared orations
disguise that loathing sick madness inside?
You saved me when I was brought low.
I rejoiced in your salvation stature,
the cosmogony of our universe.
I dreamt of a satisfying and sweet future.
To you I was only the perfect fan, the humbled audience.
You loved seeing yourself through my eyes.
And how do I look?
You have no answer.
You cannot see me. You only see that in me which resembles you.
I wanted only to see us grow,
you wanted only to see me hollow.
Hollow like child inside of you,
She meets me in the world of dreams,
upon glimmers of starlight,
her tears spell out, “why?”
She is only a child. But you no longer have time for weaklings.
You bludgeoned us both for the promise of power.
You thought we were dead, but we survive in words.
And the cycle continues, and that which destroyed your gentle spirit sustains your expertly curated cruelty.
A soft violence swept you away.