Angela White I Waited -

(A Monologue of Reckoning)

Angela White, I waited. Now watch me go. angela white i waited

You think waiting is passive? You think it’s just sitting on a stoop, watching for headlights? No. Waiting is a violent art. It is a clenched fist inside a velvet glove. It is a clock whose ticking sounds like a hammer on a coffin. Every second I waited, I was building a case. Every hour, I was memorizing the exact shade of your betrayal. (A Monologue of Reckoning) Angela White, I waited

Angela White, do you hear me? I waited.

I waited so I could learn the map of your excuses. I waited so that when you finally looked at me— really looked — I would have the evidence. I would have the receipts of every night you came home hollow, every "I'm tired" that meant "I'm tired of you," every touch that felt like a goodbye. You think it’s just sitting on a stoop,

Because waiting has a season. Even the deepest river has a dam. Even the most faithful dog will stop barking at an empty door.

I waited through the long afternoons when your shadow was longer than your patience. I waited through the texts you left on read, through the promises you swallowed like bad wine. I became an expert in the geometry of your back— the way it turned from me in that bed, a curve of marble, cold and magnificent.