we were friends once,
until you shut me out,
angry that your lover —
the married one —
tried to take me
when he wasn’t allowed.

the blame poured on me.

but i begged you back,
forgiving him, and you.
call me naïve,
but i forgave myself, too —
though there wasn’t much to.

i still thank heaven
you left me sore and reeling
before my wedding.

i’d have hated for you
to show up, smiling,
immortalised in photos,
as a maid of pretending.