HOW TO BECOME THE EX SHE NEVER GETS OVER.

What to do when she left, and you want to live in her head forever.

Women bury men fast.

It was sewn into her when God ripped the rib from Adam’s side.

A girl alone in the wild dies. A child dies faster.

She grieves at the speed of survival.

Cried for one weekend, buster.

Now she is getting bent in a loser’s bed, muddying every clean picture of her,

telling the girls she feels lighter, like you were an anchor tied to an eagle’s talon.

And look at you.

Retyping the paragraph. Perfecting commas, as if punctuation raises the dead.

You were a god to her once, ya know.

To her, you could stop time. Slug Goliath. Surf Mavericks. Take a thousand arrows and walk farther than Achilles.

You spun the world on one finger while she watched open mouthed.

Then the ground shook, the water shimmered, and her image of you warped.

Now what are you?

A dusty cobweb in the corner of her brain.

Her tongue forgot your name, though once it wore a valley through her mouth.

She threw you off the cliff like a pig, and it hurts because you know she will find another one like you the day pigs fly back UP cliffs.

I SEE YOU, Your stare could crack a mirror.

Do you know she shows your desperate texts to her friends and her family?

They laugh.

At you.

At your pain.

Wine glasses clink over your heart-bled paragraphs.

Chug more vodka, crying pussy.

Or wipe your face and look at me.

That pain has a drain plug. I can pull it, and we can burn this world.

The breakup internet prescribes one sad fucking cure.

Sit.

Stay.

Thirty days, boy.

Ugly, no girl having bald gurus rackin up a billion views running obedience camps for heartbroken men, teaching them to wait by the door until she comes home.

She left the house, dummy.

Fuck.. took the house.

When the good boy finally breaks on day thirty-one and comes trotting back with “hey stranger” in his mouth like a dead bird,

she pats him on the head,

and blocks him with the same thumb that scrolled past his sad little story.

A WARNING

because these techniques fucking work.

Run them hard enough and a girl loses her grip on the wheel of reality.

Bird from years ago swears the old photos of us WINK at her. Said it was driving her so mad she wanted to claw her own bare brain out through her scalp. Which is magic or I wink a lot when cameras come out. Thank you Tim Cook for Live Photos (;

Aim these at the one who buried you smiling.

Free sheep, this is where I lose you. Go send the paragraph. Her thumbs up is loaded.

Wolves, into the den. Spark something up and pour the mezcaaaal.

Because she is fine tonight. That is the bloody sucking horror of it. Rooftop wine, head thrown back, you downgraded to a funny story soon to be forgotten under a pile of a million men.

Everything below twists the knife back.