I remember that night at the club. I knew exactly who she was.
I was scowling, trying to start something.
She confronted me! Remembering he cheated on me—with her, what could I say?
I thought she won.

He loved me. Together, he and I made poetry.
We loved deeply without even speaking.
Although he neglected to tell me he was living with another lady.
It was too late. It got messy.
He boldy professed his love to me…in front of her—quietly.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t let go and decided to have his baby.
He chose her over me.
I thought she won.

We knew each other from back in the day.
We were just kids climbing trees, chasing each other and things.
Started reminiscing over times when we didn’t understand lies.
Innocence back then was at an all-time high. Overnight
He got engaged to someone who wasn’t me
She knew about me, but I never knew about her.
I was swiftly kicked to the curb.
I thought she won.

I never liked him like that, but we were the only blacks at work,
so co-workers assumed that.
So when he got married, everyone assumed my feelings were hurt.
All 50 of them processioned to see me,
giving their masked condolences and sympathy
as if somehow, she had won
and I had lost.

The girl at the club. I was told she found another lover, a girlfriend, because he had one. Last I heard, orange was her new black.

That one girl who knew about me, he cheated on her with several skirts. They eventually divorced.

I think the ladies at work now have sympathy for her, the co-worker’s wife, because he flirts with other girls—lucky her!

As for the poet and his pregnant wife, I secretly admired their domestic life.
Turns out I was good being content with mine.

The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

Breaking and entering, he lost his life.

If you are overlooked, it doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you.
It simply means that person wasn’t ever the one for you.

Because everybody loves and everybody wins and I guess that’s all up to us
On what that definition is.

Written by Zorina Frey – Miami, Florida

Feature photo by Vera Arsic