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By James Prenatt
This song was originally a declaration.
Borderline bragging about my broken heart,
but I’ll spare you the part where I pack up his kitchen
spitefully and scream about the naked girl upstairs.
I’m almost ashamed.
I almost went to confession today
and became that chubby Catholic school girl again,
reciting my sins in my head until I forget I’ve done nothing wrong.
We sealed the deal at the county courthouse,
raised our right hands you only you.
We got the document in the mail
but you misplaced it for a suggestion box note.
Every drawer in this house hides one of your lies.
You decorated its walls with your frustration.
I made you do it.
Trust me, I know.
Today I mourn your loss,
a requiem for a dream come true.
Today I stop the good-for-yous & I’m-better-offs.
Maybe I can find a better match,
someone whose light won’t go out once our fingers are bound.
Just so you feel better about what you did to me, know I’ll be okay.
Worst part is I still think you deserve all we were supposed to get,
the expectations unwritten in a book of pre-nuptial promises
you threw into the trash
thinking it was recycling
and hoped to get a second chance next year.
Well, I meant what I said.
My body’s not my biggest fan,
but I don’t deserve this
the crushing panic attacks,
the weight gain,
the bone-breaking feeling
that you left because of my ill-fitting clothes
or because I threatened to jump into the middle of the road
when you told me
it’s not you I just wanted someone else for a change.
Perhaps it’s wrong, but I’m getting around to feeling better.
Though the scars you left aren’t visible, I’ll trade them for a few beatings.
At least then the nostalgia would go away.
Tell me it’s not my fault.
Tell me you held the door and made me dinner and brought me my coffee because you loved me, not because you wanted things to look okay.
We got married in May,
but you’ve already forgotten the date.
You’ve already told me it’s too late to start again.
We’re at the city courthouse.
We’re filing brokenhearted pro se.
I’m telling you all I should’ve told you two years ago.
I’m telling you forgiveness is a lie
we tell to forget anything happened.
The parking in the lust layer of hell is expensive, so thanks for paying.
I’ve come to wear this tattoo like a belt, only for show and not to hold my pants up, but nothing like that.
I’m missing a notch—no wait, wrong belt.
It’s your words, not mine.
They’re cluttered, so make sure you chew.
Oh, right, you can’t eat empty words.
I only want one thing--
the ability to move on.
So here’s the engagement ring
you can take it back,
take it back like your tongue retracts
and sticks to the top of your mouth as you lie,
as you tell me the truth
you don’t love me anymore either so quit making a scene.
I reach in and pull it back
so you can say it motherfucker, say it:
you wanted me,