The worst kind of man
is the one who saw you cry over me on the train back home.
You did not cry because of my broken heart,
not necessarily, you cried because my broken heart
exchanged your arteries for glass all clogged with peach pits.
You cried because your handprint was
on my bottom still, inflamed and saturated in the
seven deadly sins. You have committed every single one.
I hate the man
who did not realize what he was witnessing, even when he
heard my porcelain bones shatter from sobs
and allowed me to say you were the pathetic one.
He must have thought you were, too.
Or he could have believed we spoke another language by
the slurs, the utter nothingness to everyone but
you and I
who had our first fight eating the remnants of a 2AM touch.
But you are not pathetic, baby,
to have reversible organs under twelve acres of red skin
divided up in three parts. You thought it was
different. A man watched a chamber of your heart close up.
I hate him and I hate her,
I hate everyone who has stolen your oxygen from me.