Buy It Better

He says I don’t speak English.

But I’m sorry? Not in his vocabulary.

I read the book on love languages—

none of them seem to be his.

So I’ve made my own:

a lexicon of forced apology.

Not kiss it better, but buy it better.

Flirting with an ex at a party,

staying by her side past midnight.

A Tiffany cuff for his lies.

Pink satin bows in the glovebox—

he swore he wasn’t seeing anyone.

Wicked tickets?

Now it’s not so wicked.

A bottle of Viagra,

three tablets gone.

Martinis the next night—

not enough vodka to numb the hurt.

A suitcase of sex toys,

costumes he can’t afford.

A round-trip ticket and Vegas suite.

I shouldn’t have left.

A bondage choker for her—

braided, ornate—

not the towel hanger he gave me.

Pots and pans as apology.

He calls the bartender darling, love.

I order another beer,

add a bottle to my wine club.

I’ll need more wine than that to forget.

She posts about wanting a baby.

The thought makes me sick.

I buy a $32 box of chocolates instead.

The drawer of restraints lies open.

He’s still gone, dressed in his best.

A stack of journals

to record every injustice.

Her naked body on our bed,

after he swore they didn’t do it.

New shoes and a dress for this lady.

Texts about blindfolding,

gagging someone else.

I should be so lucky.

A new laptop

to write these poems on.

He says he isn’t looking for a relationship,

but takes her to dinner.

He’s booked me a hotel room of my own.

He doesn’t know—

I can play that way too.

What I need: stronger antidepressants.

Insurance won’t cover it.

Costs too much, he says.

It doesn’t matter

if the money’s there or not.