Being your shoes,
sleeping with your enemies,
sunlight trickled through a
crack in the flesh.
I nbsp;dressed the wound and
forgot about you.
Being in your shoes,
I binged and purged—
out of purgatory
itself, only scratching the surface
of your deeplyseatedremorse.
I did not ache for you.
I saw your wedding photo
in the paper. You wore make-up,
had your hair curled. You never
wore make-up, and your hair was
straight. You hyphenated the last
name.
I threw the paper away.
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