The Perfect Break-Up
Your black hair desperately needs a trim,
it’s falling into your eyes, and I don’t know how you see your plate.
I hate how you’re holding your fork, my fork, like an eight year old
and poking at your spaghetti, the spaghetti I made you
as you tell me
‘I just dont love you’
like its a thought that just sprang into your head mid bite.
And I’m chewing on my salad
all because you told me I was thick last week, and now you decide you don’t love me
after I boiled the water
and placed the noodles into the pot,
Hell, I even heated up some sauce for you,
And now hearing you nonchalantly say that its over is making my mind feel like a jumbled up mess and my anxiety is crawling out of my chest
because I can’t believe your letting your meal go cold.
i loathe you sitting there so smug on the couch, my couch,
as you delve into every cliché reason why it’s not working
when just last night you were begging me to be close to you.
I know I’ll be crying, cleaning up the dishes
with the sauce smeared all over
because you insisted on rubbing your pasta around your plate.
I know I’ll be moving like a ghost the next 4 months
while I roll over in the morning and grab at your shadow
and go to call you and realize you no longer care.
I know youll be with her and her and probably her, my face never crossing into your mind.
You think I didn’t hear you so I get it again
‘I just don’t love you’
And all the while I’m wondering if I can guilt my roommates into washing the dishes
when they hear how you dumped me.