You said it with finality
as though unlike sticks and stones
words couldn’t break parts of me
it couldn’t smear ink on letters
you didn’t want read
as though the statement
wouldn’t code in an infinite loop
of questions
tiring synapses till they paused
to reflect on my self worth

If I were in your shoes
I would have gone for a walk
on a guilt trip and then
I would have done it differently

I could never say
“I ate the last slice of pizza.”
I would have taken the slice
from the fridge to the microwave
reheated it till the cheese melted
gone up to you and said
“There was only one slice left.
Would you like to share?”

And like a pot of steaming
chicken noodle soup
I would let you simmer in the guilt
of what you would have done.