First comes the flush
Then the rush of horniness
loneliness
A splash of pain
Droplets of scarlet rain
and the ****** of lingerie
Sobbing at roses
Yelling at trays
You're spotty
and bloated
and splayed on the bed like Cleopatra
drugged up on
painkillers

And the cocktail that humanity spiked with hormones

Fun.

I punctuate with close precision,
aware of where
I'm placing my semi-colons and
dashes,
using Oxford commas
like a grammar geek.

Your punctuation always bothers me
but you, with your misplaced apostrophes
and oddly abbreviated words
that you cradle in speech marks,
never care.

You were constantly callous in your conduct,
your handling of punctuation marks.
I assumed you never understood
the significance I attached to your words.

I could feel the excitement
and anxiety and apprehension
build in my belly every time
with your exclamation points!

I could feel my brows furrow together
deep in confusion,
every time you sent me just
one little question mark?

I suppose I never did tell you this
but when last month you ended your sentence
(accidentally, of course) with a dash,
well, I knew then that we’d be for ever.

and when last week you sent me
a comma to end your speech
I knew for certain that
more was to come.

but I see now it was silly
to attach such hope to a hyphen
because yesterday you concluded
with the biggest full stop I've ever seen
and let me know that that was all.

I felt that period’s punch
deep inside my gut
like you were trying to make me
throw up my jam and toast.

I had never before known
one small,
simple
dot
to be so powerful
and hurt so much.

It did though,
and you couldn't even tell-