Break up

To be clear, this is wholly fictional. Husband and I are fine!

You can screw me

in the kitchen.

It’s the best

we can do.

We’ve wrecked

the rest

of the house already.

We’ve torn down

the curtains,

spattered the paint

with our venom

and our bile.

We’ve ripped the sheets,

smashed the chairs.

We’ve cut a swath through our

once happy home. I’ve

called you names I can’t take back.

You’ve looked at me with

eyes full of spite.

We’ve robbed each other

of the will to love.

Now here we are, ready

            to come crashing down.

           

I’m exhausted and delirious.

You’re breathless

and bruised. We’ll peel off

each other’s

sticky clothes and lie down

            here

among the mess we’ve made.

There’s no fight left in me.

Let’s make this one the last.

We’ll have one more throwdown

before we call it quits.

We’ve raved and we’ve screamed

and we’ve shredded

everything that was good.

Now we’ll ravage each other

in the middle of the ruin

of our domestic bliss.

There’ll be shards of crockery

in your back,

and bits of glass

in my thighs.

And then, before it stops,

there’ll be the shells

of broken eggs, clinging to your palms,

and smears of burst fruit,

heaved against the floor,

congealing, sweet

between our stomachs.

And then we’ll fall asleep, wrung out

by the violence of our ending,

and I’ll wake up,

and you’ll be gone.