She took my Man

To the other woman, I am not mad at you. What you see in him now, is what he shows me yesteryear, only one of us will weep upon his grave: To the All-Woman Who ‘Loses’ Her Mate When love unravels, and betrayal stings, The all-woman weeps, her heart’s fragile wings. Yet hidden within this tempest of pain, A metamorphosis awaits, a higher gain. For grief and loss, like chisels, refined, Her mating intelligence, a gift divine. She learns to read the subtle cues that lie, In future mates, revealing truth from the sly. And so, she emerges, battle-scarred but wise, No longer blinded by love’s sweet disguise. Her heart, a compass, guides her through the storm, detecting low mate value, keeping her warm. But what of the other woman, entwined? She dances with deception, love’s twisted bind. Her prize, a man who once betrayed with ease, A history of infidelity, a heart ill at ease. As days pass, the all-woman stands tall, her dress discarded, memories small. She knows her worth, her happiness her own, No charity case, no borrowed throne. And when malice whispers, its venomous hiss, she invokes Hanlon’s razor, dismissing the abyss: “Never attribute to malice,” she wisely imparts, “That which is adequately explained by stupidity’s arts.” Human behavior, shaped by traits unseen, A dance of folly, wisdom, and what might have been. To the other woman, no anger, no strife, Just a silent knowing—one weeps upon life’s knife.