The sound of the whip I use
to flagellate myself reminds me of your name,
A short, sharp syllable full of spiked consonants.
Each status I see you tagged in is another lash,
for which I can never truly brace myself.
Up pops a photograph I expected to see eventually,
I thought I was prepared.
I tell myself I don’t care,
It’s partly true-I don’t,
Not in the moment, not consciously.
It’s always there, ticking away,