Patterns of Silence

I have built myself on truth,

every word a lantern held high—

no shadows, no secrets,

no games behind closed doors.

I tell you what I feel,

I tell you where I stand.

I try to weave clarity

so no thread is ever tangled.

And yet—

each time, the same unraveling.

The silence that creeps in,

slow at first,

then heavy, suffocating.

Messages unanswered,

affections dimming,

eyes that once caught fire

now flicker toward others.

It is not betrayal,

not in the language of Polyamory.

But tell me—

what is dismissal,

if not another form of leaving?

What is rejection,

if not another kind of breaking?

What is being pushed aside

but a wound that will not scar,

reopened with every pattern repeated?

I stay consistent.

I stay open.

I give without ration,

believing that love multiplies,

that affection does not subtract.

I do not shrink one lover

to feed another.

I do not quiet my voice

because a new song is playing.

I remain—

present, passionate,

even flawed,

but never false.

And still,

the rhythm collapses again.

Their interest wanes,

their communication frays,

and I am left clutching

the honesty I thought

was enough to anchor us.

It always hurts—

this endless symmetry of endings.

Each new pattern

a mirror of the last,

each rejection

a familiar echo.

Yet I do not stop.

I cannot stop.

I will not silence myself

to soften the blow of their fading.

For though their constancy falters,

mine remains—

a heartbeat, steady,

even in the hollow ache.

I am polyamorous,

but more than that—

I am faithful to my own truth.

And if truth leaves me aching,

so be it.

Better the sting of honesty

than the poison of pretending.

Polyamorous‘s heart

 I opened the gates because betrayal

was already a language I had learned—

His lips on others,

His hands feeding hunger that was never mine.

So I thought:

let me walk through these doors myself,

let me turn ashes into fire,

let me name my ache freedom.

And somewhere in the unraveling,

I discovered my own truth—

not just forgiveness,

but the fierce current in my veins,

a body that knows desire

like a tide knows the moon.

Hypersexual, yes,

but more than that:

a constellation of want,

a woman who burns brighter

than any single orbit could contain.

Yet still, the pattern hurts—

over and over I give,

I overflow,

but when their appetites are fed

by some new face,

some new flame,

I am left with the hollow echo,

my laughter swallowed by silence.

They turn away,

and I remain—

open, still giving,

still faithful to a rhythm

they no longer hear.

I tell myself to be understanding,

to wear compassion like a crown,

but compassion cuts,

and patience bruises.

How long can I be the feast

for men who leave the table

once they are full?

So maybe—

maybe it is time

to turn the page,

to stop tracing the ghosts of patterns

like constellations across a sky

that no longer belongs to me.

Maybe it is time to write

a new chapter

where my hunger is not a burden,

where my giving is met with more giving,

where my fire is not

a candle to light their shadows,

but a sun to warm

my own horizon.

I am polyamorous—

not because I was broken into it,

not because I was forced to forgive—

but because my love is vast,

my passion unending.

And somewhere out there,

there is someone

who will not leave me empty

when they are full.

Until then,

I remain

a woman of many loves,

but at last,

one who remembers

to love herself.

Because it will fade

I do not love the rose despite its dying—

I love it because it dies.

Each petal is a breath held between heartbeats,

a fragile cathedral of velvet and rain,

and the wind is already whispering its undoing.

I cup its softness knowing

my fingers cannot keep it.

That is why they hold it tighter.

The ocean wave breaks more beautiful

when you know it will never rise again in that same shape.

The sun bleeds richer gold

when you feel it sliding toward the horizon.

And you—

your laughter, your breath,

the particular way your eyes drink in the day—

you are here now,

and the clock is already taking you away from me.

Every passing second is a theft

and a blessing.

This is the covenant of the temporary:

We are not promised tomorrow,

so we drink the wine while it’s still warm in the glass.

We dance knowing the song will end,

and because of that—

we dance harder.

The finite is the fire.

The ending is the ember.

And when my hands finally close on nothing,

when the light recedes into the quiet,

I will have loved you with the ferocity

of someone who knew

that love was a comet—

and that it was worth burning my eyes

to watch it blaze.