She doesn’t deserve you, you know. She never did deserve you. In your eyes, she’s merely a piece of worn rag cloth strewn upon your doorstep because you could not afford a decent doormat. She was trod upon by your muddy boots, prodded with by my elegant Jimmy Choo high heels- the night you made love to me. She did not fight back, hoping life would take it easy on her. There she laid, on your doorstep, still as a corpse with crimson blood oozing sourcing from a gaping hole in her left breast, glass heart valve that was irreparably shattered, breaths haphazard and labored, growing fainter as each tick of the clock draws closer to midnight. She swallowed the lies you fed her and soaked knee-deep and wet in my guilt as she gasped in the damp night air. Her meek chin titled heavenwards as she marveled Van Gogh’s starry night, ignoring the sounds of fiery orgasm moans laughter and cries of exhilaration billowing like smoke from the chimney. She thought of how wonderful it would be had you been by her side at that moment, star-gazing with her. She was torn between dreams and reality, feeling life in all shades. She attempts to connect the dots, to solve the stars, all but in vain. In the end, She is nothing more than an old rag, laying bare and naked, cold and shivering upon your doorstep. I’m the one in expensive Jimmy Choos, unworthy of my own expense, worthy of a cheater.