When he tells you he’s leaving you for the other woman,
open your heart like a text message and staple it
to his wall; leave two dozen voicemails on his machine
in the middle of the night at the exact second
you know he will be climbing into bed with her,
as circled in red ink on his pocket calendar.
Remind him of how deep your kisses
can be, like plunging down a broken elevator shaft.
When he tells you, slide your hand between his legs
one last time, and don’t stop until he tilts his head back,
tender white skin exposed like milk,
the sound he makes like a cat meowing.
Then let go at the exact instant he’s about to come.
The next day, pack your bags and leave,
but not after shredding the two little red dresses
he bought for her with pinking shears
before scattering the remnants like confetti in his office cubicle.
Have a dozen yellow roses delivered to his mailbox,
but replace the carton with a dozen smashed eggs instead;
attach a note reading this is what your heart will look like
when I’m done with you to the outside.
Go into the tiny guest room you kept your clothes in
when you stayed overnight and scrawl your name
across the walls in Revenge Red lipstick.
Finally, instead of keying a vicious threat
in the metal skin of his hot orange Corvette,
scratch I had to fake it every time I slept with this man
into all four side doors.