Like clock work he came around. 9 PM. Every. Night. I know I'm not the other girl. I know I'm not the side piece. I know I have no reason to feel like one. Yet— I am here. A black swan— twirling in place fractured, fierce, pretending it's grace. Every night. The same lines. "Done" Same time. Same place. But don't get wrong, it's okay— what I feel. But then what ? I feel like the other girl. I know I am not the other girl. I know I have no reason to think I am the other fucking girl. But what? It clings to me like feathers stitched in skin. Like I was casted for the wrong role. One where I wasn't meant to win. Then What?