“How do you feel?”

She sits across from me with an unintentional smug look
plastered across the canvas of her face.

“Fine.” I say bluntly.
“Fine” meaning ‘I can’t stop picturing his face
and how his hands feel on my waist
and how it’s so much better when he’s with me and not her’.
“Fine” meaning ‘why did he have to ruin it?
Why didn’t he just pretend he loved me back?’
“Fine” meaning ‘I could catch the bus to his home right now;
stand on the doorstep and demand
he glue and stitch back together my broken heart.’
“Fine” meaning ‘I don’t want to talk to you about it.”
“Fine” meaning ‘I’m going to go home now,
lie on the roof of my house and try to get the sound
of his muffled-through-his-chest heartbeat
and the sound of my own crying
out of my head’.