****** soothes the aching,
I learned that trick from you.
Don’t bother with the counting,
that’s all theatrics, what matters is the blow.
You play something loud enough; you screamed
you can’t hear the imperfections.
Throwing my Plath books out the window
you murmured,
Talking about death means you aren’t ready.
Your silver has turned my fingers green,
for the last time. Until the next time.
You bruised my lips with a kiss
Now it will hurt every time you try to forget me.
Walking away, my hand caught in a doorjamb
you slammed it shut.
Broken fingers can’t hold on to anything,
you promised.