Renee

“I should have called.”
Your voice is so goddamn boring.
I want to strangle your wife.
She is white pearls and Vera Wang
and perfect teeth and “oh MY”
and beautifully glowing skin and polka-dot headbands.
I am fetid breath and chewed-down nails
and crooked teeth and large breasts
spilling out of a too small t-shirt.
I drink and I plot out her demise.
Her photos are laughing,
wind-whipped hair and tiny crinkles beside her eyes.
Always always always on some beautiful beach,
tumbling with her tow-headed, rosy-cheeked child.
She honestly deserves to die a thousand deaths
for the unfairness of it all.
I think of all the ways I could disrupt her enraptured life.
A well-placed phone call. An impromptu visit.
Or draw it out slow and painful.
But in the end
I sit in the dark
and cry
and drink,
a coward.
You are killing me, you know.
And I hate her
From afar.
Six years now.
How will it end?