My partners are my fondest enemies,
their smiles empty and their eyes opaque.
Each settles duller while she atrophies.
They pose as personalities but fake
emotions, long forgetting how to feel.
They’ve never thought to blaze an honest way.
Each harbors silly secrets, while the real
of possibility begins to fray.

Enough of this entanglement – supposed
to be support, they drag me down instead.
Their souls are small; their attitudes are closed.
From where I stand, their futures are as dead
as their conventions. Not for me their lives
of lies. Just go home, ladies. Be those wives.