so I guess I was your toilet paper.
there to clean up the shit
and tossed in the toilet
with your cigarette.
and you shit on the ashes
to ensure
they
flush.
so I guess that whole thing
was a lie.
you aren't the nice guy.
and you used me
for sex
and booze
and to sooth your
bruises.
so I guess we're done
here.
after three years
of chocolates on
mondays
your breath on my neck
kissing on the carpet
and falling off the bed.
I left myself
on your doormat.
