I speed through an unfamiliar neighbourhood in an expensive car,
crying, for show, and out of frustration,
because you’re going to get away with it.
You will wither away in your wooden prison,
and I’ll ask you ‘who’s sorry now?’,
but it will still be me,
because you will be still and silent,
expired and exhausting,
always hiding.

Everyone says that revenge is unhealthy,
so I didn’t take it,
but I long for it.
I wish, wistful and wayward of a timeline where I tossed your carcass in the Thames and went for cocktails with my wife,
watching the sewage and shopping trolleys swallow you whole,
until you are untraceable,
unable to be mourned by anyone stupid enough to see good in you.

People are crying,
and unlike me, they really mean it,
so I play nice,
preening and primping as I speak to the pretty girl who works at the chapel,
because I know you’d be turning in your grave at the thought,
but I say nothing of my revenge,
nor what you owe me.

I want to bury myself for never being harder on you when you could hear it.
I still shared a smile with you,
said kind words,
resisted my rage, and the pain,
Well, I don’t really know.
It didn’t change anything.
You never learned. I never grew.
You’re still dead, and despised,
and I am still alive, and aching.

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