Broken Women

Broken Women

In love, I’ve been lucky to have been spared

the fallout that comes when it dies

having always been the one who does the leaving

and never the one who has been let go.

I am a chronic lover of broken women

the kind who beg you never to leave.

Their eyes glisten when you rise from bed.

Just ten more minutes. I don’t want to be alone.

I wear tear stained shirts like medals of honor.

Holding a woman while she cries gets me hard

makes me rise higher than the pedestal she puts me on

so I let her paint me blacker than mascara sorrow.

They make love like a stained-glass tapestry

singing praise like a hundred Sunday voices.

They scream your name in place of God’s

with orgasms like offerings on a hallowed Sabbath shrine.

I feel her hands on my chest and pushing.

*I don’t know who I am. Please don’t hate me.

You’re the only one I’ve ever truly loved.*

Who’s going to save the self-appointed savior?

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