The truth in my body is waiting for husbands to return from war, I can’t follow otherwise. We lit a candle in the window of this living room she loved me in, then peered in eardrums for where these memories seeped out onto our pillows in my sleep, waking the stomach bile every morn, keeping the tossing turning tumblers in my bed with me. I ate my own heart, is that what you want to hear? That you are forgiven through my inhumane acts every night? You will always be the villain in your own mind, page turners burned outside dystopian libraries in your name; all my future lovers scratch your name out of their diaries in red pen, two days is not long enough for a heart to stop beating tender, you used your fear like a scissor. Scrapbook your intentions to the roof of your mouth, I care not for your late night phone calls; language reveals the true intent in this rambled mission statement. So here it is: you had my heart like a stoplight but you chose to be gone, so. Be gone. I still wanted your fingerprints until I realized you can’t love the war between God and the devil in your clavicle, then I gave up seeing your false skin, and now I picture your cruelty worn like a corsage. Keep your last poem like war correspondence; I am light and laughter and love now, you missed the next chapter.