Spitting out bitter after Buon Natale

The day after Christmas is often rampant with regret
Why'd I purchase, why'd I drink so much, why'd I rend the paper so quickly...

My regret is perhaps more poignant, pervasive, as I end this rough year with some bitter spit. I haven't even slept yet. I doubt you have either, you rarely sleep.

I knew you so well, and so little. Because you insisted on not knowing yourself. It was up to me and mine to pick up the pieces of this callous little girl in a mask. Even when I demanded you take it off. You said it was your face. And I'd grimace and gnash and stomp my feet "You are lying! Take it off!".

You said it was unkind; so was stringing his heart and mine along your window while you studied. You'll be a doctor, you know we'd come limping back, how long can we live without those things? And I snatched mine off the line, and I watched him bleeding out and pleading with you.

And still you imply, "Come, wash my clothes. Make me soup. Hold my head when I'm weary. Carry my body."

How long did you lie? I'm sure you're unsure. I'm sure you didn't know what to do. It is always convenient when we need not make a decision. Do you remember true threat? Or has it become the generalized malaise, the Incompletes, the Extensions, the forgetting of food and sleepless nights?

You told me I could count your ribs if I didn't believe you. Come count your ribs under your masked face, as if this would make me believe you felt rather than see- you are in fact, hollow.

And I'm a fool.

We're leaving, soon. We took the hearts off the line, they're a bit dry and cracked but we can hide and polish them. Spit shine, spit out the bitter, even if it gets rubbed in. Ultimately it makes us stronger. We'll head north and we'll start building. You'll have fun, curled up on some other woman's couch.

I'm sure you'll forget me, perhaps not him.

Funny, how you hated the idea of "ornaments" - and here you are, settling in among them. Cozy, and you're all boxed away, heaving against each other in the dark. Enjoy it. I'm sure you'll love them, as you loved me. If you call that love.

And you can hate my lack of form, so blunt you could smoke me, you said that poems about love bored you. Too much emotion bored you. I'm sure you'll recover from the ennui.