Puppet on a string
That’s how it feels when he calls me by my mothers name, by accident, while i prepare one of her favourite meals for him. Taking care. Of someone else,
He doesn’t know I’m bursting at the seams with everything you tell me I’m not doing enough of, again
Sex. Love. Not the same.
Them before me, once again
And again and again
But to him, she is me.
Physically, she is dead.
Maybe I am too.


















