Puppet on a string
Thatās 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 doesnāt know Iām bursting at the seams with everything you tell me Iām 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.

















