He bullies me still
long past the carnage of divorce
in barbed words and cold dismissal
of the stretch scarred landscape
of my motherhood.
He writes and rewrites
the history of our together
as though his pain could
change the tangents of time
As though he was the
the colonial author
of a story that isn't his;
figments to justify the
the bitter taste
of his vulnerability
I watch quietly
as he dismantles my past
a tiny dictator desperate
to control every narrative
even as they fall through
his tightly clenched fingers
as irreverent as wayward
grains of sand.