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 smell s.ex 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 lost.
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