I wrote the damned poem
the piece that cursed you out
and gave you what for
– whatever they may mean –
about how you screwed me over
but were forbidden
from ever doing that again
and swore that you would never
ever see me vulnerable
at any future time
and that we were through.

It was epic.
It was potent.
It was filled with vigorous invective
and it put you in your place
and then knocked you for a loop.
It was awful
and great.
It was awfully great
and
it burned quite easily
in the fire of my favor
for you.

I killed the damned poem
and let its ashes
fly up and away
so there would be no proof of it
for anyone to experience ever.
I did this for you
and all I ask in return
is a little credit
and that you never do
what you did
again.
Do you think
you can handle that?