I feel the prickles on my skin, and the tingling in my spine.
I know that there’s a voice he hears, and I know it isn’t mine.
I temper my self-torture, for I know there are no stakes.
But I fear he likes the sounds that other women make.

I warm and bathe in worry. I feed my envy and it grows.
I boil and seethe over, and hope my anguish never shows.
I temper my reactions, for I fear imminent  mistakes.
When I see he likes the sounds that other women make.

I feel some sort of sadness, and feel compelled to make it hate.
I know these thoughts of mine are madness, but imagined wounds can’t be erased.
I clench, and my fists clutch, and I hope that my bones break,
So I’ll forget he likes the sounds that other women make.

I lose sight of my sanity, letting my fragile ego break.
I lament it might provoke in me my gravest faults to date.
I dwell and I obsess, and wonder how much I can take
When I face the fact he likes the sounds that other women make.