The Devil Wears Prada

 

The Devil Wears Prada

i thought
i understood you.

—

maybe that was
the problem.

—

i knew
what you wore

on the outside.

—

the silence.

the distance.

the decisions

that made me

look at you

differently.

—

i watched you leave

and assumed

i knew

what was leaving.

—

that’s the danger

of presentation.

—

prada looks expensive

because somebody

designed

what you were

supposed to see.

—

and maybe

i did the same

with you.

—

took every action.

every absence.

every unanswered question.

stitched them together

until they became

a woman

i could understand.

—

the villain.

—

it was easier

that way.

—

because villains

don’t need

another side.

—

then you spoke.

—

and suddenly

there was somebody

underneath

everything

i had been looking at.

—

hurt.

angry.

abandoned.

misunderstood.

—

same night.

different wound.

—

and now

i don’t know

what to do

with that.

—

because understanding

why you hurt

doesn’t undo

how you hurt me.

—

and knowing

you cared

doesn’t make

your choices

easier to carry.

—

that might be

what bothers me

the most.

—

i wanted

one version

of you

to be true.

—

either

you cared

or you didn’t.

—

either

i misunderstood you

or you misunderstood me.

—

either

you were the wound

or you were wounded.

—

but somehow

you were both.

—

and maybe

that’s where

the devil

wears prada.

—

not because

the woman

is evil.

—

because what she wears

can become

more convincing

than everything

she never learned

how to show.

—

i thought

i knew you

because i knew

what your actions

did to me.

—

i never asked

what was happening

inside you

while you did them.

—

now i know

there was more.

—

and somehow

that doesn’t

make it better.

—

it just makes

the truth

harder to wear.

— Mr. Mak

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