I pour you out on paper with my pen,
like sour milk past its due date,
discarding the pain you’ve left me,
with your brutal goodbye,
as you turned me away into the black night.

I spill out my rage for your coldness;
for hiding her inside and letting me think
that I was the only one.
I rage on for making me love you,
and for not seeing the telltale signs until too late.

I stand by my basin at last,
and with a single stroke of a match, you’re ablaze
with the white hot anger I’ve held.
Your memory crumbles along with the ashes,
as they swirl out of sight, down the toilet of my past.