My brain is broken. It still wants you to be loyal, and whole.
It holds the promises of future adventures; how we would swim with otters,
eat laksa in Singapore, chase stars raining on the horizon in the desert.
I remember when you booked a hotel for the two of us. The world below faded
into the haze of sunset. This was the last seed of hope—before you turned into a sandstorm, stinging and blinding me. When it settled you were just a mirage.
Your former lover lied to me today, tried to offer comfort by pretending
she never tried to weave herself around you; unaware of how you liked to keep her
dangling on the chain so you could reel her in when your life turned into a ghost town.
She doesn’t know you didn’t leave the room when she sobbed down the phone begging
you to love her. You enjoyed keeping interlopers on the periphery; amused by the earthquakes it created in my psyche—while you wrapped your arms around me and called me your girl.
Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Pink Plastic House, IceFloe Press, Mineral Lit Mag, Rising Phoenix Review, Ghost Heart Lit, 24 Neon Magazine, Chantarelle's Notebook, Cabinet of Heed, and Marias At Sampaguitas. She is a contributing writer at Pussy Magic. Marisa is the founder and EIC of Neon Mariposa Magazine. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris.