I debated sending this
because I knew
how it would look:
another woman
arriving with warnings
after the relationship ends.
if I were in your position,
I would want someone
to tell me.
Someone tried with me once.
I keep wondering
why I didnât act on itâŚ
Something about hindsight.
Your name kept appearing
the algorithm certain
I must know you.
Nope.
But someone else mightâŚ
You became my gutâs
favorite game
to keep me up at night.
And so I asked
and so he said:
No.
After that,
everything sharpened.
Missed nights.
Unanswered calls.
Plans dissolving
halfway through them.
Iâd tell him
something feels wrong
and get back
pictures of nothing
instead of answers.
Meanwhile,
future plans.
âI love you.â
Phone plans.
Kids coming home.
My name
still married to his
in his phone
You know,
I had just written the book
on sniffing out rot
while I had been teaching
he had been studying
what made my axis tilt
Thatâs the part
I need you to understand.
Nothing about it
looked over.
I kept asking.
Carefully at first.
Then cared less with time
And yetâ
my questions stayed simple:
Just tell me
if youâre coming home.
Just tell me
what this is.
He said
what this is
is not for him anymore.
What the fuck does that even mean?
After that,
I asked once,
clearly:
is there
someone else?
Note this reply,
Iâm asking about you:
Clearly.
Loudly.
Offendedly.
âNo.â
Which is interesting,
because innocence
rarely arrives
with theater lighting.
Listen,
I am not asking you
to leave him.
I am not even asking
you believe me.
Maybe
you already know.
Maybe
he told you everything.
Maybe
Iâm arriving with information
you unpacked weeks ago.
If so,
apologies
I guess.
Iâll disappear
as much as anyone can,
you know how this town can be
But if thereâs even a chance
you donât know
he moved you into
a haunted room
I couldnât stay quiet.
Witness failure
is an intolerable action.
And maybe that sounds
dramaticâŚ
until you realize
how many women die
because another woman
decided discomfort
wasnât worth risking.
Iâm just doing my partâ
anti-recruitment.
The Sister (Ex)Wives Club.
We already have hoodies.
The membership process
seems unnecessarily traumatic.
Thatâs all this is.
Not revenge.
Not possession.
Not me fighting for him.
Iâm fighting
for the woman
standing where I stood
without realizing
the floorboards
already gave way.
And before you decide
what to do with this,
let me draw you
the blast radius:
My house?
Now his.
My car
also his.
My stability
still brushes against
his moods
in ways
Iâm desperate to sever.
So know
if this detonates,
his shrapnel
rips through me first.
Still,
here I am.
Still,
I hope Iâm wrong.
I hope years from now
this message
feels ridiculous to you.
I hope you never hear
these warnings
in your own voice.
But just in caseâ
we have hoodies.
Whatâs your size?