He wanted a pair of strong arms.
Any time I came close to him,
he claimed, he would hold me
tight, but not suffocatingly so,
and that would make him feel strong.

My fragile man, my Sam.
I let him hold my hand and bag
instead of body. I mistook pity
as passion. That conquering strength
he looked for with a pair of burning
eyes as well as arms.
He refused to hold my bag.

He said only womanisers hold
women's bags.

If he were strong, would he only
have me in his arms, hoping that
it's enough. When my coffee went cold
he drank it. Creamless, sugarless,
bitter taste left on the tip
of his tongue but he did not complain.

He would keep his weakness. Mental
and physical. I let him live
like a coward, as if I don't care.
But if I don't, who does?