The Gilded Email

That email glowed, a practiced wink,

another shelf for him.

It makes my molars ache, I think,

a sour, secret whim.

His name. Again. A gilded sound.

It makes the bile rise, slow.

I wish I’d never seen that round,

too-perfect author’s glow.

That smirk. That book spine, sharp and straight.

A thing I can’t explain.

This rot inside, this petty hate,

a low, persistent pain.

I know I shouldn't feel this way,

it’s weak, it’s small, it’s cheap.

But when I see him win the day,

secrets my gut can’t keep.