Breakup Vengeance
There you are. Sitting at the yellow-topped table made for two, but this time it’s only you - reading the printed copy of the daily news your paperboy so kindly flails at your door. Your lips appear chapped, bitten, broken. Dried blood crusted between each split. I even spy with my little eye the dandruff that always haunted your ego. I wish you’d have listened to me about your God-awful orange shag carpet. Even from the kitchen, it reeks of old people.
