Should I write about how much I trusted you only to find out you lied?
Should I vent my frustration at your feelings of entitlement and irresponsibility?
Should I bottle every tear you’ve made me shed and write a poem with them as ink?
Should I write a song telling everyone I don’t remember what you look like?
Go ahead, pick whichever one will break your heart the worst. Pick one and read exactly how I feel. Swim at your own risk in the eulogies I could write about us.
I will not spare you. No censors will trickle down the page. I am not ashamed of the things I could put to verse. You should be. You should feel guilt and remorse for this and every poem hereafter.
Feel sorry, my love, for all the knives and pens, the brands and scars, the common hours and the unexpected places I will visit. Feel the ridicule and anger in every diseased, angsty word I channel in disdain. Feel the pain of everyone you were ready to damn as we melt song lyrics and mix them with ourselves.
Maybe then you will come to see through the eyes you painted over.
So go on, my lover, pick a theme. Choose your poison.
Arsenic for family. Formaldehyde for lies. Nightshade for me. Or perhaps you’d prefer a cyanide cocktail? A list of sins, encompassing everything in the book?
Come on baby, dig your grave.
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