Instead of writing about our breakup

I could have wept.
I could have drank more than
before, when the clear plastic bottle hummed
with vodka and the fumes alone kicked me
awake and smiling around the tears.

I would have been angry
but i’d used the energy shaking
each bone chiming acoustic and
hissing with rusting black steam.
Eight months on
i’m welcoming you
and plumping pillows for your barbed mouth
to lie on. Good intentions beaten blue with wishing
and hopeful promises cracked wildly across the knees.
Be good to me, please.

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