Call Your Wife... Call Your Mother...

 

Call your wife.

Call your mother.

Tell them how you talk to women like me

when no one's watching—

But of course,

I'm the Outspoken Btch*,

and you,

the Outstanding Gentleman

in your suit and tie.

But sure—

I’d rather be outclass

than be hung like sea bass

on your trophy wall,

smiling silent

while you call me “crass.”

Your twisted kinks.

Your polished lies.

You think I won’t roar?

That I’ll tuck in my shadow

just to keep your sin safe?

I own my dark.

Loud.

Proud.

You will not cage me

with your guilt-laced chains.

If you were so happy

choosing her over me,

Then go flirt with her.

Not me.

Don’t you dare come here

with your diluted apologies

and leftover lust.

I’d rather be

The villain in your story

Than your sidepiece in silence.

Because I remember—

You were a playboy then,

You’re still a playboy now,

And every time you smile and say

“We’re still friends”…

God,

I puke a little.

You know your name.

Don’t play lost boy.

Don’t hide behind your

“Good intentions.”

I used to care—

because your mother and I

share the same birthday.

A cosmic thread,

now frayed in every way.

So better—

Stay away.

I’ll crush you

with that AT-AT,

I’ll burn you

with that goddess rage,

and still rise

glorious,

unchained.