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  • Writer's pictureMegg Kelly

He thinks I don’t know.

He thinks I can’t smell his pitiful attempts to cover lies.

I can hear the electric hum of body heat multiply in caution

-she’s on to you- it forewarns.

It's then I know,

a lie is heaving for the throw.

He never could hide that snap gloss of the eye that reads,

stay chill,

don’t beat your terrified shrill. Hold still

and pray to any of the worshipped wads that she can’t see I’m a fraud.

It dates back to our beginning,

this tendency of his,

to fuck other women,

telling them

Lay Lay I miss you, my wife doesn’t want sex but it’s ok because I can sext you today.


Ah, yes, that’s what he said to his

most recent fuck of the day.


I shouldn’t be surprised. I should do more than slam doors and hope that’ll be enough of a desperate cry, enough for him to finally hear, look at her dying inside, that swift slam of a door, a snap cry to change my way.


But will he? Has he? Should I stay?

It doesn’t matter,

the should could would,

I have no choice but to stay.

You see its been made that way,

made sure I’d have to stay,

no money, no life line, no me to take away.


It’s another story of man and wife, living in animosity, because I have no means to stand up for myself and say,

look at me, living, thriving, loving, no more man’s tides to sweep my life away.


Yet here I am,

writing this instead of running away,

afraid that till my dying day,

he still be finding another Ashley to lay.

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