Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

She’ll adore you when you buy her a
bouquet of roses, but she’ll both look past
the red and thorns and know it intimately
and cherish it.

She’ll then keep you stationed, still and sturdy
at a moment in her inner clock’s
tick, tock and chime, a back-up plan she
enjoys watching, as you chase the will-o’-the-wisp,
forever deluded because you think
that someday, something will materialize
and your hopes will take solid form like
a marbled garden with its thin stream,
hyacinths, close-cropped lawn and
little cupids with their bows and arrows,
a mystical, mythical place of retreat.

She feeds on what you give her,
though you’re emotionally starving
and mentally emaciated watching other
men come and go, and you’re reduced to
‘awws,’ ‘you’re such a good friend,’
and the false-hope inducing, ‘what will I do
without you?’

But those men starve her, make the sonnet you
see a doggerel, and you can’t help but think,
‘What does she see in them?’ There lies your flaw
my friend because you fail to see the vicious
connection of human relationships. She gets her
nourishment from you and you’ll always fall behind
because it’s power and strength that attracts her.

Your beautiful villanelle isn’t a pastural song or
an angel embodied. She’s just as flawed as you
and since she can’t cry on the shoulders of the men
who disrespect and disregard her, she falls on yours,
just like you fall on an imagined one full of
wishful dreams and surreal boulevards.

Snap out of it! She isn’t the only person
in this world, but since you’ve made it so, she enjoys it.
But know that if you do, she’ll come frustrated,
furious and ferocious because a limb severed
still feels present for a while.

And then one day when you’ve moved on,
she’ll adore you and regret using you with
such a wonderfully crafted ruse and that’s your
next test. Fail and you’re back to being the doormat,
the bell boy, but ignore her completely,
and you’ll soon realize that hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned. You’ll become the butt of her jokes,
the center of her gossip, talked about even more
than the man she’s with.

Walk away, dear friend. There’s another woman somewhere
who’ll appreciate you for you, both accepting and giving,
both receiving and taking, and yes, that throng
of fundamentalists who want to reinvent language
or make it gender neutral will read this, while you do,
but don’t fear them. They’re just like her, desperately
and deceitfully craving attention.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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