You didn’t trade up.
You traded down—
clearance rack man with an expiration date,
the TEMU version of me in a flimsy package.
No backbone, no flame,
just a boy wearing confidence like a borrowed jacket.
You ran from a furnace
to play with matches in a sandbox.
Cowardice, served cold.
That’s what it was—
Not growth, not clarity,
just another immature bitch move dressed in “self-love.”
Have fun playing house with soft hands
and a soft spine.
Enjoy year two—right before
you ghost him like you ghosted me.
Because that’s your cycle,
isn’t it?
New man, same void.
New bed, same ache.
I was the real thing—
you couldn’t carry the weight,
so you found someone who couldn’t carry you.
Good riddance
to the storm I stopped blaming myself for.
You didn’t just lose a man.
You lost the kingdom he was building.
So stay in your fantasy,
with your soft substitute and quiet lies.
You weren’t woman enough for a king—
so now you bow beside a boy
and call it peace.
-
Author:
Sigmund Gilbert (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 31st, 2025 14:51
- Comment from author about the poem: When she couldn’t handle the real thing.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
Offline)
Comments2
A poem made of cliches mended into a story that tells in irony the inability of one to accept what is real. Nicely done
You figured it out!!
This one was fun!!
A nicely crafted write of someone's inability to except what is real, some nice lines, enjoyed the read
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