Bistro Stool Poem by Mildred Awuor

I went back to the place where I met you,
the overcrowded abyss of alcohol-induced bliss.

"Mama, I met a stranger in a bar
and he asked me if I wanted to dance."

I should have said no.
God, how I wish I had said no.

I made the first call,
and you called me beautiful.

"He is lucky, he has a beautiful girlfriend."

Silence. Deafening silence.
I still don't know how to handle being called beautiful.
It is a trait that I carry begrudgingly,
I cannot claim ownership of my genes.

You opened my eyes to the truth,
I know we never looked the part,
but we were burying our love,
I had dug the grave many months before,
and we were eulogizing it,
and maybe this sorrow - remembering the past
made us look happy.

I was ready to leave but he wasn't,
I felt responsible somehow.
His sadness,
I still loved him.
So I stayed.

I know he blames it on you,

"Just tell me the truth, it is him, he is the reason..."

It was the truth, at least part of it,
you were the final blow and that is all that he saw.

I am sorry.
I wanted to say that.
Sorry-I could not admit the truth,
Sorry- I did not legitimize you,
Sorry- I did not give you the chance.

Your silence is deafening,
and your rejection painful,
did you like the book I gave you for your birthday?