How does it feel to have poems written about you

and not to care?

How do words formed in the ragged exhale of

sadness at your absence

(despite the path you scorched through me)

fail to scratch your armored skin?

I breathe heavy while you sleep soundly

I type and think, type and think, about you while you

carry on like I

don’t exist.

‘Fruitless’ puts it gently;

these words are proof

of how deep I let your claws

latch in me, spilling words instead of

blood with their withdrawal.

Your silence resumed one hundred and twenty one days ago

Your greed was insatiable—why do I still

give you more?

Maybe because it’s the last way I can talk to you.

Maybe my fantasies of you reading these

and finally understanding what you’ve done

give me some sick comfort

Maybe my version of you feeling sorry

convinces me that writing this might actually

be worth it.