it’s better, i think, when break ups end on sour notes.
not sweet melancholy, but lost fingers on unloved instruments
freeing, soothing somehow even,
dripping melted iron, no broken cutlery,
only anger that burns and feeds.
it would take too much maturity
to let you get away with any pieces of me left,
if i didn’t have some resentment clinging onto my person.
to you, who were my friend,
it breaks me how for people once so fond,
apathy is the last matching cloak we wear.