He got a new pet on my birthday. The same day he found out I was seeing someone else. Loves her so much. But it don’t add up. All of your pictures show this puppy…love. Not a happy life. Not a happy home. Not a happy wife. Not happy kids. Your sunglasses blinders, your masks lids. Instead, They show where you hid, up late at night. When weed kik it. Texting when we shouldn’t have. Saying things better left unsaid. Now like water trapped inside my head. I remember when you were so excited about those pillows you bought, you told me, you showed me. You mentioned. But now?—practically every picture shared is of this dog, with those same pillows, in what is our sunroom. And you were always an honest loyal man. Or so I thought. Why do you say you love this dog—but not the wife? How could you not stir, sit, drink, and think of me every night? With your watered down proof, a chest full of razors, and your heart a knife? Knowing full well in truth, that I’m Mrs. Write.
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).