this feeling of rage is staggering but the sadness-the sadness is what turns the stagger into skinned knees and mascara stained cheeks; the sadness is what makes the blackness feel like there is no soap in the world to cleanse you; the sadness is what brought you there with a knife.

i could cut out your heart, you cry. you weep. you wail.

but instead the sadness lets you kiss him one more time and the rage lets you fuck him and the total desolation is what lets you let him leave the next morning. you’re in knee socks and a green towel and he is pretending to want to write.

i’ll write, he says, real letters-with my hand.

ok, you nod.

he leaves and it’s the loss that presses you down into the sheets for days.