Scrub the smell of him out of your mouth, your hair, or chop
it all off, watch the long red strands fold into the drain
like egg yolks into batter. Rip apart the stained underwear
with pinking shears until they are unrecognizable, torn,
look like something found in a disaster zone.
Throw tomatoes one by one against the wall and watch
them smash into a pulpy mess; pretend they’re him
or his heart or actions and don’t stop to clean them up.
What he did doesn’t deserve to be covered over.
Replace all the pillows in the house, all the bedsheets,
the windowpanes, the cupboard doors, counters-
anything and everything he touched, get rid of it,
pile it into dozens upon dozens of garbage bags
and set them out by the curb to rot like maggots.
Staunch the leaking of your heart with rags,
take a trip down to the beach and lie between the ribs
of a giant whale carcass, make a home under its bones
until his smell wears off and is replaced by the whale’s.
File the police report. Go to the cops. Stay there morning
noon and night if necessary. Ensure justice for yourself,
and in doing so, for every possible woman after.
Finally, look into the mirror. Look long and hard,
realize you are complicated and messy and beautiful
but still breathing, and he may have stuck a knife
between your legs, but it didn’t stab your heart.
Your heart is still whole.
You are still you.