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11.28.09

To the boy who broke my bed:

I've thought about all the things I could do, but they don't count. In this town, could and can are the same difference as my heart and yours, meaning, only one of them exists.

So all the coulds - the control copy paste, the photos, the facebooks, the fits - whatever. You're more likely to wake up with a Louboutin in your ass than to see me behave like a girl in rage.

But you must know that I am. Enraged. In rage. All of it. I know you like pictures better than words, so let's try this:

Imagine a backwards balcony scene where he says, "Sneak downstairs and kiss me, I'm in love with you," and she does. Then imagine after the makeout, hazy in the lamppost and hot, he punches her. Hard. And kicks in her gut. His sneaker steps on her hand. And he leaves her, in the pink nightgown, spitting blood between lip gloss.

To the boy who broke my bed:

I put it back together. All by myself.