Open

It’s not the quiet slapping sounds

from the next room.

It’s not the soft groans.

I don’t mind the what,

but the how.

It’s the several empty wine bottles

that mean I am invisible.

It’s that I asked for it not to be here,

not only once prior

but twice during as well.

I mind that every time I make my presence known,

there is nothing.

No acknowledgement,

no second thought,

no hesitation.

I mind that there’s no respect.

And it may be the first time this has happened

but it’s the pattern that scares me,

the feeling of descent, of backtracking,

of unwinding the promise that rings my finger.

I don’t mind what is happening,

but I am ripped apart by how empty I feel

when you are so full of desire for something

that carries you down with the level in the bottle,

willfully down and away

from me.