My lips
are chapped and brown
with dried blood,
so I crawl on the rug
to the bathroom
and to stare at myself
with self loathing for
the third time this hour,
while echoes of
"you lost him"
resound through
my pounding head.

I slowly climb
into my empty bed and cry
for the first time in months,
because seeing you felt like
a punch in the
******* stomach.
The consistency
of your detachment
was comforting like
mismatched socks;
awry, but slightly less
than this.

The pain is new and fresh
like a ripped off bandaid:
it felt kind of okay,
but then you took it away,
again.

Emotions are not my friend,
and apparently,
neither are you.
This is nothing new,
but it seems I had
convinced myself otherwise;
because like you said
with a bored yawn,
though I am bad at most things,
I am good at lying
and doing everything wrong.