From our breasts,

our men suck sweetness dry,

grow strong enough

to carry themselves away,

letting our love overflow into shriveled waste.

Emboldened by the fullness of our devotion,

our men recoil from reciprocity.

Grow tired of us,

yet presume our loyalty;

exhaust our consideration

until bitterness overtakes our bosom.

In our minds, we know love is not possessive

so we watch in silent bamboozlement

as our men grow free of belonging.

We wait, weighed down with loyalty and longing,

even as time enlightens our senses,

revealing we choose the love we get.