called me a man hater.
I wondered if that could be true.
For hatred never was a feel I knew.
And then I think perhaps it might be
that he hated what he saw
when he reposed in my reflection.
The lack of trust imbedded
in experience. The pulling back
from intimate embrace. The way
my words would trace the truth
of all that men made of my youth.
The cost of all the pain they left behind.
A wanderer, too lost to live in time.
Worn around the edges. Frazzled
by their constant dazzling. Sunk
into the deep of their depressions.
Reaching out to find there's no one there.
He called me a man hater.
Then told me that he wasn't one of them.
And walked away, in tandem with them all...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .