So you aren’t messing around?
I would give him a long stare
later that night,
hands glued to my hips:
a power-stance.

Taylor Swift coached me
never to forgive a cheater,
But would he choose her?

I had just wrapped the new CD,
putting a bow over the cowboy hat of
his favorite country singer, and
put his beloved cheap beer to chill
in the fridge for his birthday.

Red hands torn and tipping
his last shitty beer into
a drunken mouth at
two in the afternoon,
I contemplated
laying in the shards of CD
and a blanket of wrapping paper
in the fetal position,
just for a second.

Categories: Poetry