Pawing at your face with the pads of your fingertips
You scramble to cover your eyes
Form a hollow to catch droplets
Of “Don’t be such a girl about it”
And “I don’t want that [you]”
Even “Sorry, I thought you knew”
Gently depositing them in your little bucket of self-pity
Wallowing as you lean back
Berating yourself because
“Fool me once, shame on you”
Fool me [7] times, shame doesn't even begin to cover you
Prostrating yourself at the feet of someone
Who doesn’t deserve your worship
Who shouldn’t be treading over
The butterflies in your stomach
Releasing the poison of monarchs into your bloodstream
Feathered wings covering the areolar sacs in your lungs
Black and orange spots cancerous in their intent to smother you
Don’t smile when he scrapes dirt off on your soul
With the bottoms of his fancy Italian shoes
Picasso said, “There are only two types of woman:
Goddesses and doormats”
And you, my dear, are a goddess.