The bed had been empty for too many days and I knew
it was getting to the stage I was a little
bit crazy. It could have been different if you weren't so outrageous.
It was winter afterall.
I was cold. I was contempt.
I was jealous.
I was off my head. It wasn't the red. I drank enough to be calm,
to be steady, to shower, to dress
for a night of fun out on the town. Instead,
I found you with her. I wanted people to laugh. It wasn't hard.
Already a fool who hated being called a boy
I poked you in the chest, called you slut-boy,
whore-boy, pretty-boy, toy-boy, bitch-boy, dance-floor
boy and more while this other woman grabbed
at the sleeve of my coat. A quick shove fixed that.
As for you, you fled from the cocktail bar the the one
at the back of another room. If someone said I was acting
like a stalker, I didn't hear. My focus was narrow,
concentrated on making a fist. It cut your upper lip.
The force of the punch left my skirt bunched up near my bum.
Men clapped and cheered, shouted 'what a piece of meat'.
As for you, you fled. There was nothing left to do, well, not there.
At home, I lit a fire, drank more red. I was still a bit crazy,
still off my head. It was winter. I was cold. I was energy on legs
busy removing anything reminding me of you. I burnt
your Italian leather shoes. Your t-shirts. Your underwear
too. The smoke alarm went off. I shut it up with the handle
of a broom. The room glowed the brightest orange.
By morning, it was warm mandarin when I finally slept.