If you love someone, set them free, we’re told.
If they come back then you’re not the villain
they claimed you were. Your: “I’m being controlled,”
seemed an odd grief, since your, “I won’t question
what you want, just use me,” started every
letter. Your mom in Tulsa said that I
was a scoundrel, making you do pervy
things in public. Perhaps. I won’t deny
that I loved your genius for not getting
caught in a world that calls what we do shame.
Yet your last words said how you loathed sexting.
Odd … but reason enough to stop this game.
Perhaps I’m bad. Perhaps you’ll learn to burn
on your terms. Either way, I won’t return.
memories of my ghost sista 