The Morning After

My lover drops me off in the driveway.
I lug my backpack inside,
begin to unpack all the loneliness
and split it up, dividing it into
small handfuls I can scatter
throughout the house.

In my kitchen, I eat a bowl full of guilt
and sip from a tepid glass of laziness.
Later, I’ll deny myself from taking
any pleasure, heaped steaming in bowls
before me.

I curl up in bed next to self-loathing,
sing it to sleep so I can
lie, wide-eyed, watching the shadows
dance on my ceiling.

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