Crusted dishes climb up out of the kitchen sink. There’s a pair of crumpled socks on the rug. He’s wearing ripped sweatpants.
It was a kiss goodbye in more ways than one. Goodbye for now, you’ll be back in a week. Goodbye for now, you will let him go. You will go home.
It’s in the subway, at the exit you and your boyfriend got off after an hour of travel because you couldn’t stand the hot train anymore, that you realise how much you want to crack open your own ribs.
You told me once to zip it or you would Rip my head off. I don't talk back much anymore.
Those lies wash away with the rain; disdain, I know, will soon go, too.