The End of It

He never loved you.
He bought all those nice, pretty things for her,
for the girl in the blue dress, the scandal,
for the stolen kisses and thrill of their secret.
Dirty was what it was.
It was his little game. And he sure played you, too
oh and then of course,
the jerk goes and pretends to love you,
when to all the other girls on his block,
he also sends his “regards”.
At the end he’d arrive late
to the dinners that you had slaved over
since seven in the morning,
and that was that.
That was the end of it.
You may ask yourself: did I really do the right thing?
Should I have ended it?
Hello!
Of course, you silly girl.
It’s not even a question.
He doesn’t deserve
even a molecule of your thoughts.
He doesn’t deserve
to even catch a glimpse of you on the street.

He doesn’t deserve s***.

Don’t tell me you don’t remember that night
I took you to the show,
we had popcorn and candy and all that stuff—you remember.
And don’t tell me you don’t remember
the way he wrapped his drunken arm
around her toothpick waist
and the way I picked you up off the floor,
took you home and made you that tea you like.
Don’t pretend he didn’t show up late
to all those little diner parties we organized,
stinking of fourteen cheap perfumes,
and that sometimes, he didn’t show up at all.
Don’t act like nothing happened, honey,
because we both know
that if he ever steps foot in this apartment again,
he might just lose that foot of his.





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