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.
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