Breaking Up

A woman takes revenge on her cheating man. Italian sonnet!

The kitchen’s a fantastic mess, and I,
after, shall not regret a single bit
of dripping lemon peel and juice and grit
from broken vases, ground into your eye,
so blinded on the tile floor you’ll lie.
You shant even see the dried peach pit
or the sweater that my mother knit
join, underneath your skin, the crusts of rye.

It’s not that this shall bring me any joy,
but you chose the wrong woman to beguile.
She won’t know to clean this lovely gore,
nor shall she again touch her precious toy.
Be careful what you wish for, lover: I’ll
make good your “I can’t see you anymore.”

Reviews

[Liz]

From reading your writing I noticed you have grown a liking toward comparing things to food. I love that about your words! It's just so interesting. The ending really drives it in to whoever's soul this was intended for.
Nice job!