I have organized all your nods in the crevices of my mind. Your pauses, all uh-um-actually, dropped in between your sentences like confetti, in rhythm with the blinking and unmade eye contacts with me.
It’s simple enough to understand but I still give you a second chance to speak, nodding reassuringly, incessantly evoking words to spill out of your mouth and paint a different mural. Strong in their resolve and foundation just like always when you talk to someone else. Your broken sentences that the writer in me can’t help but find wrong, something fishy is going on and I won’t fool myself for your sake any long.
So, hurry up and cover your steps, lay down some more bullshit in a plate and serve it to me, so that you can say you tried not to hurt my feelings. Because what you served smelled like roses and chocolates and friendship and clicked selfies, of your perfect pouts but always my insecurities, instead of what it really was- pointed thorns dripping with black poison, that soaked through my tongue and dissolved into my blood.
The smoke that rose, curled out of my mouth in exceptional swirls and I smiled at you and nodded my acceptance. Don’t be fooled. It’s not a nod for your performance being on point, you were skittish remember? You were worried about saving face when you twisted excuses of not wanting me with you anymore until they sounded like haiku poems about gold dust, moonlight and truth, but I’m a writer remember?
Your poems don’t fool me dear, because I’ve written better than you all along. The nod I gave you when you told me how it was better if I didn’t come along, when how last Tuesday you didn’t even bother doing that and didn’t wait around to see my nod.
This nod, says, I’m done.