Apart

I don't love your pretty
anymore.
I wretch up chunks of vomit on the floor
and walk through it in bare feet
with a train
that trails behind and drags your lies
through them.
I scald contaminated
conscience thin,
to try and keep your spores from
getting in,
and suffocate myself with
fragrant soap,
to wash away my hate
with pope on rope.
And above all this
sickened strong distain,
I'll kill myself to see
once again.

poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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