The Chameleon

I wear fear
like the color
of my skin. So much
a part of me.

The Chameleon.
Settling inside skin
too little for me
to move in. Trapped.

Trying to fool you
with boasts of
being unafraid.

Like fear was never
encapsulated
in the seed
of our love.

Fear wears many
disguises. The masks
hiding what can
clearly be seen.

Like when you’re holding
me, and I try
to etch the feeling of
us in love over the veins
of our existence.

Something to live
beyond us.

Which fear am I
hiding? The fear that’s
etched in my memory
or the fear that gathers

like clouds while
you’re lying
on top of me.
Diminishing.

And my role becomes
the watcher: me looking
beyond you to see
what the view
will look like

when you’re gone.
Foolishly
I believed you would
try to stop me.
(Not really, I didn’t.)

That you want me to
believe what we have
won’t just one day
be a hazy memory.

When the truth is
we both know
you and I are a lie.
And lies
that look like love
simply cannot last.
Lies that resemble
love are a lovely deceit.

But being the chameleon
I am, I slipped into the skin
of your intention and saw
the traces of your leaving

long before you were gone.

Peace & Love,
Rosalind