A stranger shoved his loneliness down my throat —
said women are liars, thieves, whores.
said he was "done."
as if we had been waiting for him.
​
He is not the first.
He will not be the last.
Men like him mistake their rot for wisdom,
their tantrums for truth.
​
They want a woman
who bleeds on command,
who forgives the blade
they bring to the table.
​
I owe him nothing.
Not my softness.
Not my time.
Not even my anger.
​
I carve him out of my inbox
like cutting mould from bread.
I leave him to starve
on the feast of his own bitterness.
​
Block. Delete.
He falls away like ash from a dead cigarette.
I step into the morning,
smelling of nothing but my own skin.