The morning he broke up with me, he shit

his pants. We got a donut shaped as a poop-emoji

to commemorate the occasion, singing Miley

Cyrus’ The Climb on the drive home, reveling

in the love that sees shit and laughs in response,

still wants to have sex later in the day. Instead

of sex, he returned from a walk and told me

he never loved me. I watched him unfold

the corners of pages from books he’d borrowed

and put them back on the shelf, pack his piano

into the trunk of his car. In a newly emptied house

I washed a spider down the drain, dyed my hair pink,

then began the drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco,

my phone buzzing from texts received after a finsta post.

I’m sorry and I love you and you know, today

it’s socially acceptable to drink margaritas all day long.

Halfway there, I pulled into a Taco Bell drive thru

and inhaled a quesarito through sobs. No victory.

Is it liberation if you didn’t ask for it, didn’t feel

trapped or enslaved? We were building a life

together, all shared showers and popped butt zits

and bricks and grout. Now I’m left smoking weed

alone, finding excuses to drink in the daytime,

crying in a Taco Bell drive thru and calling it celebration.