“Her.”

I spit the word at the screen,

dancing around why I was so very angry.

“She’s older than me,” I said, smirking,

“and fatter, and ugly. So, I’ve got that going.

Look who he has and look who ~I’m~ fucking.”

Crass, yeah? I know. That’s my style.

But for all of that smirk there was little smile.

I suppose that jealous isn’t exactly the feeling.

I don’t want the wares that you are selling

her poor family and herself. It’s true.

I’m actually sad that they have to have you.

Liars are liars. They so rarely change.

I know this because it has been part of my name.

And I know that you’ll do them the same

as you’ve done all the people who have your same name.

That was months ago, I sat on the phone,

telling my friend she just ~had~ to know.

You know what it was? I don’t want to be “Her.”

I don’t mean this new, older girl.

Let me explain. The new guy I’m with came with kids

and those kids have a mom who I’m sure has the wish

to not be “Her,” the other mom, the Wicked Step.

The difference between us two, and his new

is that she and he don’t see his own two

kids. He never calls or tries to be there.

Only when it benefits him does he care,

but never enough to do anything.

So, here, at long last, is what I mean:

I want to be one of two moms

of these kids of my loves’.

I don’t want there to be competition or fear

or judgement. I want the air clear.

I want for those kids what I wish for mine:

that their dad and step-dad could be the same side.

I don’t want to be “Her.”

I don’t want there to be a “Her.”