When I see you, my head pounds
When I talk to you, my throat is sore
Am I sick?
Or am I sick and tired of the ******* spewing out of your mouth like *****,
The tang leaving an aftertaste more sour than the way we left things.

Moving on is the best medicine,
But you doused me in the sickly sweet scent of your soul,
The formaldehyde keeping me from letting the memories decompose
So I kept fighting and I put  the relationship on life support.

It doesn’t matter though,
As the erratic beat turns into a flatline, I declared the time of death.
If you wouldn’t offer me a “clean” break I was going to make one,
even if it was riddled with more disease than the corpse.

I wanted to bury and mourn it, but our friendship is a morgue;
Sterile and haunted.
The husks of who we used to be dissected by my thoughts every chance I get.
Where did I go wrong?
The autopsy is inconclusive