The trouble is you never asked me to give it up —
the job, the scandal, the booze, the fun; I just knew
it all had to go if we were going to make it.
You said, “I think you like the way they look at you,”
and I could taste the venom on your tongue. The only thing
you asked me to sacrifice was my figure for a child
whose promise may change my name,
one day,
to Bride.
If it’s any consolation,
they don’t look at me
anymore
and tonight, while you’re out
at the wedding, I lit all of the candles
on our porch
(the one room that you gave me
to be mine, the place you neglected
and never filled before I came,
but I still call
it ours). I looked at it
from the sidewalk. I was happy
with the glow.
Coffee or Suicide 
Narrative style at it’s best.
Thank you! And thank you for reading!