You morph into a sickly, vomit colored version of your lovers. I know this because I do too. There are phrases in my lexicon that will never grow legs or wings and leave me to be new. There are times when I look at you and see the same man-bulging beer gut and eyes made of silt-who showed up on my proverbial doorstep seven years ago. Seven is the number of completion, so does that mean you’re done making a complete fool of me? Or at least of yourself? You look at me with silver lies behind your smile like I can’t see them, but they are jumping off of you with their arms flailing all about. I turn my back to them, only to hear them laughing with their tongues sticking out. It is so late for us. For me. What would I do now? Move back to misery, and be a mother to the children I thought I raised to not need me, yet they never leave the lining of my purse, or the call log of my phone? I should allow you to be with her, but I can’t let you send me back to where I came from shrunken and gray like some witch doctor’s experiment. I have to keep up this magenta façade for as long as I can. ALL IS WELL! I AM FINE! MY TEETH ARE SUPER WHITE AND ALL MY LAUNDRY IS DONE! NO WAY! MY HUSBAND WOULD NEVER! When I hear you cleaning up your patois around other people, I know you have just left her, and it sickens me that you can’t clean her fuzz off your legs before wiping your mouth to come home.