You. Red lips and cold eyes, child-
bearing hips that he loved, friend.
Post-coital tristesse, call it adultery.
Through the broken glass your arm
snags on the shards, poet, and
you shout: “Let me in! Let me in!”
because you are a part of this game
now. I will call you Old Me, and curse
you, Sloane you, whose words come red.
May you be known as whip-crack
head-smack and devil-cunt, you.
I want to visit your home and burn it
all to the ground. May you never conceive.
May all the matching underwear you carefully
plan catch fire and blister the parting
of your legs, and may you be forever
alive, never dying, wandering the earth
with unflattering, exhausted and fragile
age, a half-ghost battered by the
harsh winds and rain.