There is a beauty, unlike any other, in being the Other Woman.
Whose heart, a ticking dynamite, exploding with emotion,
Blessed with an unquenchable desire for freedom.
Strangers to the feeling of being claimed,
We wear our pride like a widowed bride adorns her veil.
But we are the home wreckers and the heart breakers,
The faces accustomed to accusing fingers.
They say we're a forgotten thought, like an abandoned orphan, too cursed to love
unrequited or unconditional.
our moral compass is dysfunctional.
Neither grief-stricken nor guilt-ridden,
from being mocked, ridiculed, and shamed.
Somehow people always tend to forget that it takes two to play this game
So with having our names engraved, onto the bullets of Blame.
We watch those, who laid their souls to us take aim.
But let's not waste time to stop to count the wounds
For is not allowed by our nature to cry or to swoon
Over the graves, we dug ourselves driven by false judgment
That maybe this time, it could turn out different
Labeled I am as Betrayal's Mistress and she, Loyal's Lover,
In truth, we are but mere transient escapes of one another
She settles to be left alone to be consoled for being almost
While I still wonder untamed with ease, sober on stale lust.
But there is a beauty, unlike any other, in being the Other Woman.
For my delicate existence would cease, if she really was enough.
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