And I’ve got a sonnet for every sin you swore you didn’t commit.
They told me to forgive.
I said, “Cool. But first—let me workshop this rage into a quatrain.”
Because I don’t do revenge.
I do edits.
I revise my history with rhythm,
punctuate the pain,
and turn your gaslighting into enjambment.
You tried to silence me?
I turned your silence into slam poetry.
You called me crazy?
Now you’re a metaphor for instability—
and babe, the stanza slaps.
I don’t break hearts back.
I break meter and sell it as art.
I don’t do petty.
I do pentameter.
My clapbacks have cadence.
My rage has rhythm.
And when I say I’m over it,
I mean I’ve drafted three chapbooks
and assigned you a footnote in each.
You want peace?
Try being the subject of a sestina
where every line spirals into your unresolved daddy issues.
No, I’m not gonna slash your tires.
But I might write a limerick about your emotional immaturity
and post it on a tote bag.
You’re not just an ex.
You’re a motif.
Recurring. Predictable.
And perfectly rhymed with “unavailable.”
So go ahead—
say I’m too dramatic.
Too loud. Too much.
Just know I’m writing all that down.
With flair pens.
In verse.
Because I’m not petty.
I’m poetic.
And baby, that means you live forever—
in lowercase.
Italicized.
And slightly out of rhythm,
just like your apologies.
I’m Not Petty. I’m Poetic About It.
You ghosted, I quoted. You lied, I rhymed.
Your drama’s now line 12 in a verse well-timed.
Call it petty? Please. I prefer “literary shade.”
And yes, your apology’s now merch-grade.
—The Funny Phoenix, editor-in-scream of poetic revenge
