At once both Sampson and Delilah

 
She used to meet  
my eyes  
in the mirror
when  
she braided  
my hair.  
 
We’d talk about  
inconsequential  
nothings,  
and I’d  
relax  
for a moment  
under the  
feel-good  
skin-prickles  
of her  
hands sliding  
through my hair.  
 
After her shift,  
I’d be in my office  
typing out  
my notes and  
having a glass of wine,  
she’d slide into  
the chair behind me  
 
undo the braid,  
make the same  
joke, every night,
and rest her cheek  
against my back.  
 
I’d laugh.  
Every time.  
 
She was everything  
I can’t be.  
Soft.
Forgiving.  
Non confrontational.

At night,  
she’d fall  
into the slumber  
of the forgiven,  
a hand curled  
under her cheek
while I read  
and tickled  
her back with  
my nails.  
 
Eventually,  
sleep would find  
me too,  
and I can’t  
remember  
a time  
I slept easier.  
 
I took for  
granted the  
strength a  
truly good  
woman brings  
to a home,  
and she had the  
patience for  
everything  
except  
my apathy.  
 
The last time  
she braided my  
hair,
she didn’t  
meet my eyes.  
 
I found a reason  
to not be home  
when she  
packed.  
 
I haven’t  
had more than
a trim in almost 20 years.  
I sat at  
my vanity,  
pulling my hair  
back in a plain  
ponytail that  
touched the  
top of my ass,  
his hand  
on my shoulder,  
and I realized  
it was time.
 
It was time.  
 
I’m willing to  
meet my own eyes
and curse myself  
on a  
blade of my  
own treachery.    
 
I’m ready to  
be crushed  
with the masses
under the  
weight of my  
own weakness.