The light is not a threat
it's a dare,
and every second you're behind the yellow line
the more there is at stake.

It's like wearing a seat belt
and closing your eyes
allowing tire to connect to yellow line
that leads to the sky,
if you're lucky.

Taking a cat nap in a coffin,
unconcerned yellow eyes of your past life
opening to the sight of
your own exorcism.

Changing stop lights
manipulate the colors
behind your stained glass pseudo christ,
highlighting the features every yellow-belly loves best.

Girls standing on street corners
******* themselves out for their yellow haired congressmen,
only to satisfy their oral fixation
on the more handsome opponent.

Passing the **** to the next contestant,
sadistically watching
as they choke,
mimicking the yellow glow of the sun.

The manila folder
that stores your secrets.
Yellow nails dig into skin
knowing you will never be forgiven.

When you went out on me, you forgot your things.
I left them for days, hoping you would return,
To take them away,
But on the 100th hour I found a box and decided to pack for you.

I started with the ashes of a poster you made me. Drug tights that I found in your car that weren’t mine and your phone, vibrating from the sext messages.  In went ash tray, over used bottles and unused condoms.  I found the rope that was always knotted closer to my end.  Cut my finger on the broken mirror of insecurity you placed in front of me when talking to your other girlfriends.  I tossed in the mask you loved wearing.  Buckets of *****.  Your socks.  Empty cans of courage.  Clocks full of hours I wasted when waiting for your replies.  A glass full of gasoline tears.  I had to throw in the skin you clawed off my back.  ***** sheets.  Cigarette ends.  Sifted through piles of poems describing a woman that wasn’t me, and found my love letters you tossed aside.  Towards the bottom I found ticket stubs, and the pick-up lines that never failed you.

But underneath the dirt I found this:

Pebbles from the playground with the tallest slide.  Sand from San Diego.  Mental pictures I took of you while you lay next to me.  Your cologne and your Fleet Foxes shirt.  The Lennon and Yoko vinyl we danced to for the first time.  Memories of you asking to distract me.  Memories of waking up next to you the first night I stayed over.  Interpol.  Pictures of you looking me in the eyes, convincing me that you loved me.  A scribbled drawing of a beast and you holding hands.  The wicker chair from the back porch.  Bukowski’s War All the Time from that hot summer day.  Splinter Cell.  I felt you kissing down my spine, and then back up.  I found images of us laughing.

I'm keeping the good things, but I can no longer bear this box of burdens on my own, and it is not fair to send your way either.  I’ll do us both a favor.  I’ll light a match and let the ******* burn.