Love cannot blossom from humiliation

He walked behind me at every step,

looking for ways to trip me up.

Writing in my Notes app felt like a betrayal,

even though he could see it wasn't a message to someone else.

Love cannot blossom from humiliation.

He believed otherwise, excelling in his efforts,

only to behead what he had enthroned.

He chased after me while I was rushing to the post office

with a package clearly in my hand, ready to mail it.

Love cannot blossom from humiliation.

Going shopping alone became excruciating,

heavy bags on my shoulders, with the phone to my ear, explaining

this simple trip that was beyond his control.

Everything had to be organised as he saw fit.

Love cannot blossom from humiliation.

Collecting the duvet for washing became a problem;

the tearing sound of a zipper on the pillow brought back memories

of his wife's betrayal in another country.

It wasn't me

neither any man zipping the fly.

As I was supposed to be hiding

his imaginary lovers in my closet -

overflowing, confined with garments,

while he was searching for his rivals among his only friends.

I never knew them; he connected the facts

from past unfortunate voyages with his former spouse,

expecting him to be loved despite these repeated acts of cruelty.

Love cannot blossom from humiliation.

It will only fester on the skin and mould the house walls

under scrutiny by a heartbroken admirer,

skipping like old records in all the wrong places.