Friday is a slow news day,
which means your breakup text
on a Friday night
came in before everybody left for the weekend.
Now, I’m not really one for hyperbole,
but getting that text was like
Nagasaki, Hiroshima, 9/11,
the sinking of the Lusitania,
the sinking of the Titanic,
losing my keys,
losing my religion,
J.R. getting shot,
Wash getting killed by Reavers in Serenity,
and stubbing my toe
all at once.
Now, I’ve broken up with guys before:
I’ve sat them down,
gone through a slow death,
or moved to another state
(where it’s possible he could break laws
saying things like “I’ll follow you”),
and I’ve even been broken up with over the phone,
but News Flash!
The only person
who really gives a shit about my broken heart
is me,
and seriously,
I’ve got a medical-grade sewing kit handy,
and when I make that first stitch,
the needle pokes my heart
like it would a voodoo doll,
piercing tiny holes where your name used to be.
See, the scars are already stretched
from trying to love the world.
Breaking News!
This update just in:
I believe we have a live feed
of our heroine the poet onstage
in front of an audience.
Witnesses say the poem
was occasionally funny,
sometimes poetic,
but definitely in English.
Thanks Jim. Here’s Jim with the weather.
Crying with an 80% chance of (heaving)
and a 100% chance of running snot.
Break out the hankies,
it’s going to be a hot mess.
Nobody reads press releases on Friday,
nobody reads emails on Friday,
and certainly a text can wait
when you’re already got the Mondays.
Shit, everybody knows you smoke weed
and listen to “The Chronic” on Friday!
Can’t we just have a couple more days of delusion?
A Fox News weekend?
Perhaps put up videos of yourself on Facebook
where you’re writing on a chalkboard
Glenn Beck style
taping pictures of my face
next to a ripped up picture
of my heart,
explaining something about
Nazi apocalypse something something–
Zombies!
I just needed a catchword to describe
how I stumbled through the sadness
searching for your voice
to bring me back,
but all I got was silence.
Praise Jesus!
I can erase your texts
just as easily as changing the channel.
But, still. News Flash!
You can’t just erase 13 months
with a pithy soundbite.
You can’t be distracted by petty bullshit.
I mean, there are so many times
Lindsay Lohan can be arrested.
There are only so many times
I can replay fake fights in my head
like using stock footage
to fake a rally.
I mean, really,
texting me
how much of a bad person
you seem to think I am
without even looking into my eyes
makes me feel bad for you.
So I guess the real News Flash
is that there is more of you I don’t miss
that there is of you I do,
and what does that make
of what we were?
A highlight reel
of our long relationship,
the scoreboard saying 0-0?
A bittersweet story at the end of the newscast?
A commentary on how fucked up
we both are?
News Flash. It’s just a story,
badly edited together memories that fade to black,
a hyperbole that fades to a dull scar,
constantly stretched.
Or, maybe just like news on a Friday,
maybe just nothing at all.