Your love is not the substratum of my everything,
unconditionally holding me in its embrace.
I'm certain I say this to hurt you,
to make you feel something for me,
even if it is regret, or sorrow, or pain.
For your silence is cruel
and speaks louder than a thousand voices,
and makes me want to know:
how could you love me
yet so easily toss me aside?
Like a piece of trash.
That is how I feel. Disposed.
You took what you needed from me,
you called it love,
you called me goddess,
but love does not just take and use and
then discard.
That is not love.
That is not devotion.
That is not Goddess/God.
That is unconsciousness moving toward itself.
I'm trying still to see the good, to know that
this is my heart waking up,
and this is the beloved coming to prepare me
for love and more love and ever more love.
For the love that moved through me then moves
through me now and needs no validation, no reassurance,
no illusion of safe harbor, no you. It is not yours,
I am not yours.
And you are not mine, anymore.
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