Esprit de l'escalier

It makes me sick, to think of him
Looking at them.
secretly
Shiny, full, senuous and willing
Rolling his finger across the mouse
Scrolling to see more, never stopping.

It makes me sick, to know he is
Thinking of them that way
wantonly
Watching, desiring, possessing and dreaming
With the same eyes he used to see me
Saying I was beautiful, so trusting.

It makes me sick, I’m sorry friend,
If that is what you – now
avidly
believe is beautiful,
I don’t want to be a part
Posing for your calendar, never caring.