Men I don't write poetry about {A Poem}

In all that time, I never wrote one poem about him, 

or him, or him.

.

Not one word of devotion and giddy happiness 

that usually pours from me the moment 

I feel my heart stir

with the first beats of attraction. 

.

I thought it was because I was living in the moment, 

too full with feeling to express it more,

but now I realise it’s because 

I was too busy surviving, 

too busy trying to hold onto the edges of myself 

as he devoted himself to shrinking my world,

and he listed everything wrong with me with a f*cking smile, 

and he thought I was a prize - but only as long as I never had a mind of my own. 

.

The crazy-making of these men

cut off my impulse

to sing and cry and laugh

from the bliss and contradictions of love,

to write about all of it,

and about a love much bigger

than any individual man.

.

For the next man I love,

I’ll be listening for the call,

the cathedral bells in the distance

that awaken my poetess,

typing into my phone late at night,

the words spilling over

in a way that could only signal

safety.

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Love and light,

Anthea