I suppose I should thank you.
You carved me out of the wall,
said I was good,
said I was beautiful,
said I was essential,
With your coal eyes, you said,
“Now you’re here” when I walked
into a room of faces. I never knew
what that meant until then.
And with your mouth, you worshipped me.
Curve of maroon, honeydew,
blood-sap. The wet of my thighs
drew your scarred hands.
There was work, yes. Chisel and
pan and corkscrew. I watched your sweat
climb the thickening veins there.
But it was never love.
It was false prophet, dross & golden idol,
it was disappear into a reflection.
The creator that worships his creation.
But, as all creations, I faded. What was left:
brittle, tea crackpot,
a kernel of loneliness
Bio: Tamara Franks is a graduate of the University of Alabama in Huntsville with a BA in English. She’s lived in all regions of the U.S. and has been writing poetry for ten years. Aside from writing, she’s passionate about horses, film, and folk music. Her two horses have been her companions and guides in life for the last several years. She maintains a Tumblr blog at thewrittenpoet.tumblr.com.