The Ramblings of a Girl Who Isn’t Caitlin

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.