Anticlimactic

I write a letter to an
ex-lover who seems to stay
behind the times on who’s
let who go. And I write to him
and call him several names
I wouldn’t call my mother
or my father,
names that would never come out
of Mother Theresa’s lips and when
I’m done, I crumple it up and
think about burning it
or eating it, but my fury is
tasteless and dry on paper.
-anna