I’m making omelettes with our memories while you walk on the eggshells of what you think I want. I can hear your porcelain words through the page, the worry that I will stick to the pan of your promises. I can see all this cooking in your head because I too am a chef in the kitchen of inflated egos. My ego is the perfect fucking souffle.
Darling, my words were never double-edged. I never talked to you in anagrams. I didn’t pose questions as nets, or use compliments as crossword puzzles. Did you think that I would fall into the space of your absent messages? All I can think of is that you don’t know how to spell. Your punctuation is elusive, as if I didn’t already know that your feelings for me are just ellipses. But I will not melt for syrupy darrrlings in any language.
Sugar, when I said you weren’t my equal, I meant that your whole is my fraction. When you subtract yourself, 99% of me doesn’t flinch. Don’t get me wrong, our tongues were good at finding X together but I do not need you to solve any of my equations. The cup of your palm might be perfect for the volume of my breasts but the statistics show that this is a common phenomenon. You assumed you could fill my hunger with your watered down vows but you are only a canoe sailing by my iceberg heart. You couldn’t hit me with a compass.
Don’t overestimate the dent you made in my bed. I didn’t find religion in your mouth so, no, I don’t miss it. I might have smiled like the sunrise, but I didn’t see stars in your eyes. Your promises were petal-delicate but less pretty. You think you’re letting me down easy but the truth is you never made me that hard.
You see, darling, you can’t reject what was never yours.