That night when you come home and drape yourself next to me
like a cat that's found its place you smell of Chanel No.
5, not mine. I want to scream, how dare you have the
audacity to f.uck
someone who can afford better perfume than I can. While
you sleep, I lie in bed and think of the ways that I could hurt
you. Your jeans are hanging on my drawer, you bought them for
£145, I spend the hours slowly unstitching each seam.
When you ask I say, God, baby, I don't know, they
scammed you maybe, no one is trustworthy these days
anyhow. For every time you put your mouth on my neck I
think of your lips on hers, and the croissant I had for
breakfast rolls in my stomach. I wonder if you know, that I can
on you, I can smell longing for flesh that isn't mine. I
think so hard that I get a migraine and you say, oh honey,
do you want a massage? In a voice I thought was just for
me but no part of you looks familiar anymore. I look at your
hands on me, on her, on other hers, your beautiful fingers and
I want to break them. You've been quiet lately,
you'll say, rolling into our broken home, traces of other
woman all over your body. Even when we shower together I
can't wipe the scent and I think that maybe we can survive
this, except on our last night, your hands are cupping my face
and you're saying, god I love you, you're the most
beautiful girl I've ever seen. I imagine you saying
those things to her and I break like rubble, the scratch on
your face will be there for weeks. I'll show you the door,
naked and hurt and cold and I'll say, go to her.
I'll say, I know what you've been doing.
I'll say, I hope when you f.uck
her you'll think of me, you'll think of what you