Terrible Person

I’ve slept with a married man.

Not once. Not accidentally. Not without knowing.

I knew exactly where the ring was supposed to be.

I just never looked for it.

I’ve made bragposts.

Smiled when people envied me.

Collected compliments like stolen jewelry.

Wore them around the house when nobody was looking.

I have lied for money.

Not survival. Not desperation.

Just because I wanted more.

And because sometimes wanting more feels embarrassingly similar to needing it.

I manipulated an ex into leaving me.

A clean operation.

No shouting. No dramatic scene.

Just careful pressure applied over months until the decision felt like hers.

A professional coward’s breakup.

I brought someone into my home.

Now I hide from her.

I hear footsteps and wait for silence before opening my door.

The apartment feels smaller.

I feel smaller.

Funny how charity becomes resentment once it learns your schedule.

I hooked up with a man a friend liked. Not because I wanted him.

Because I wanted to win.

The distinction matters.

Or perhaps it doesn’t.

I pretended not to hear someone begging for food

I remember her voice.

I do not remember what excuse I gave myself.

Only that it sounded reasonable at the time.

Most sins do.

I killed a dog.

A puppy.

It slipped from my lap.

A moment. A sound. Convulsions.

Then nothing.

People say accidents happen.

The puppy remained equally dead.

I helped someone die.

The sentence sits there.

Heavy.

Refusing elaboration.

Refusing mercy.

Terrible person.

At least I know this one.