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.