Witness

Verb. To see (an event; typically a crime or an accident) take place.

True love exists. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it try to hide itself in the gaps in-between the teeth of my father’s crooked smile at the mention of my mother’s name. I’ve seen it peek out from behind the flicker of a new flame, a relationship built by a couple ready to commit to something I was convinced they couldn’t tame. I’ve seen it display itself proudly like an athlete’s trophy case, between lovers of the same sex that simply didn’t give a shit about what homophobes had to say.

But just because I’ve caught it with my eyes doesn’t mean I’ve held it in my grasp. I’ve ran my hands through his hair like an open field but I’ve never laid down in the grass. I’ve locked my fingers into his, believing we would last, but he never bothered to put me first. I’ve bled into every word of my prose and free verse but his lips parted emptily, cliché and rehearsed. I had made a home in his beating heart but was never welcomed inside. Although I suspected he had something to hide, I let him pick flowers from the garden I kept to myself and handed him the key to what I was too scared to open alone. I whispered “you’re welcome here, what’s mine is also your own,”

and maybe,

just maybe,

that was my biggest mistake.