Vices

My only vices are my smokes,
my man,
and his cruel commitments.
Hell in November,
it starts,
I am forsaken,
shaken,
while he plays the good man,
and I, the silent, sobbing partner.

I weep,
on her sheets,
when he is hers,
as a birthday gift,
for her and her vows,
broken,
their shards sitting between my ribs.
She is twenty again,
for the ten minutes he lasts,
before thinking of last night,
when he was mine again.

I’m in a tower of terror,
trembling under tears,
until he returns,
through the smoke screens,
and places smoke rings,
on my faithful finger,
that shine brighter,
than the band of gold,
she is still so proud of,
despite it’s partner longing to be within me.


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