what she needs

There is nothing beautiful
in that mess you left.
The  woman in the bathroom
scrubs her face with toilet paper
trying to remove her mascara.
She can't admit she still loves you
more than she loves herself.

She turns her ringer off
trying to convince herself she doesn't care
then makes excuses to turn it back on.
She wants to be there when you "come to your senses."
I know she's just hoping you care that she's still alive.
I also know you don't.

The broken mess you left
sits on the windowsill
feet dangling onto the ledge
thirty-four floors up
waiting for an answer
waiting for one other human
to give a damn whether she lives or dies

she hears silence
sure, cars traverse the roads below
music statics from a nearby apartment
but none of it touches her soul
none of it is the sustenance she needs
no simple concern- no reassurance
not even a fake apology.
Not even a lie.

She just has the imprint of your intrusive, violating dick
on her bleeding insides.

she takes a step.