You’ve been gone all weekend, probably with your new man.
As to why I’m sitting here waiting, I’ll never understand.

I cleaned the house.
Scrubbed the toilets.
I even made you dinner.
And you couldn’t care less.

How good was it, that you’re still not home this late on a Sunday?
I just want you to notice.
I just want to  be seen, like “check out the porcelain, that’s quite a sheen!”

I want to go back to my old friends, a tall bottle and my knife.
I want to feel the burning of the liquor, and the cold of the steel.
I want to make manifest the pain you cause me, so I can feel something real.

Less than a six pack and surely I’d be ready for the noose.
The tree out back should be sturdy enough.
My limbs would lie steady, before the tree’s would come loose.

Will you let my loved ones have my things?
Would you come to my funeral?
Would you spit out my name in front of your new lovers door; and forget my existence, now and evermore?

Teach me how to care less. How to be cunning, conniving and cold.  
So I can take this knife to my throat, without seeing my mother’s face.
Teach me how to care less.
So I can bleed out on our floors, like a worthless disgrace.