Every word you text me twists my gut like a knife,
everything you do simply another stab with that
bejeweled dagger, all wrapped in the gold you’ve collected,
the gold you say I have to earn, like you have no duty to me.
Every single time you say her name,
a hand with knives for nails pulls my heart
from my chest and squeezes, my blood
splattering on my shoes, soaking into my socks.
Cold,
Arrogant,
Insensitive,
Tactless,
Late,
Infuriating,
Narcissistic to a degree,
That is what you are, just as intended to be.
A grown man of forty-seven, a petulant child who
shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects,
as you only use them to wound,
and you’ve carved out your eyes so you don’t have to watch
me bleed all over your stupid carpet.
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