At some point, patterns stop looking like accidents. The excuses get thinner, the roles get clearer, and what people are willing to accept says more than what they claim to want. Some call it insecurity to question it. Others call it exactly what it is.
Attention on Tap:
He told me I was his,
and I held that like it meant something,
not loud,
just real in the quiet places
where truth is supposed to live.
And I was real.
That’s what makes this different.
Then there was you,
and you,
and you.
A whole line of women,
stepping over each other
for a man who never stood still
long enough to be anything solid.
When it all comes to light,
no shouting, no drama,
just the question that lingers:
How can anyone feel so comfortable
being one of many
and calling it enough?
And you laughed,
called me insecure,
like I’m the problem
for noticing the pattern,
like standards are jealousy,
like I should be flattered
to be included
in something so small.
But listen.
He didn’t pick you.
He didn’t pick me.
He didn’t pick any of you.
He picked access,
ego,
attention on tap.
And you,
you defend your spot in the lineup
like it’s a throne,
like being chosen sometimes
is better than being chosen fully.
You’d rather share a man
than face yourself alone,
rather compete for pieces
than demand the whole.
And somehow,
I’m the insecure one.
No.
I just see it clearly now.
This isn’t a love story.
It’s a rotation.
And I’m the one
who stepped out of line.
– Tabitha M.
The Sharp tongue 