This is my letter to you,
rash and unproofread
like bouts of teenage
poetry and angst.
Unconcentrated disgust
and rage that bleeds through
the pages like ink from a
well and blood through a
bandage, that crimson
that you wrapped around
your body in the form of a
slinky little dress that matched
the carpet in my apartment
perfectly.

You tasted like wine and adventure
with a tint of regret and poise
that you tried to hide behind
slang and lipstick, but I'm sorry
Darling, you can't play the game
like I can, and you won't last,
so fold your ******* hand
and cash in your chips,
you won't need them where
you're going.

Your breath on my neck
and you're seeing stars,
but you can't play the game
like I can, and my foot is
already out the ******* door.

But, this is my letter to you
written on the embroidered
napkins on the nightstand
in the hotel room where you
sold your soul for cheap wine
and a good ******* time.
You can't play the game like
I can, and you're just
scribbled on a hotel napkin.