He leaned over me
like he was preparing a speech—
so careful, so deliberate,
touching my shoulder
as if it were a district
he meant to flip.
He whispered that my ideas
were beautiful—
dangerous—
the kind that pressed against his skin
and made him burn a little.
I mistook that heat
for solidarity.
In the half-light,
his hands mapped me
like contested territory,
claiming borders
he would later deny existed.
He said he loved my passion—
my politics—
the way my breath quickened
when I spoke of justice.
He arched toward me
as though I were
a revolution he secretly wanted
to crush.
What a fool I was
not to notice how he echoed me,
every idea, every sigh—
a mirror tilted
to distort
not reflect.
I thought he was learning me.
He was studying me
like an enemy.
Now I understand:
he never wanted my truth,
only the shimmer of it,
the way a man might touch silk
before voting to ban it.
He said I believe you.
But that was foreplay.
The betrayal
was the climax
he’d been rehearsing
from the start.
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