When he came home the next morning
hungover, and reeking of the night,
do you wish you could have yelled at him:
"Why did you forget about me?"
You saw your mother crying
one night and you knew why,
she'd been yelling over the phone
to her sister
about what an unfaithful bastard
he was, fucking
that young nurse.
You couldn't sleep that night
could you?
As you lay there in bed
staring at the black ceiling,
the memory of his
face, mocking
you. That was then,
but it's never stopped being
a wound in your heart,
gushing blood
on your dress,
staining your
hands.
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