And for heaven's sake don't rhyme it.

Don't give me any of this wilted rose bullshit, or black knots of pain or shattered hearts. Tell me the real story. What happened, how it made you feel. Tell me about her coffee cup, pulled warm from the dishwasher, how even after ridding the rest of your apartment of her the lipstick still remains, pressed lips on porcelain a reminder of the morning before.

Will you enshrine it, enthralled, or give her a second chance? The garbage can beckons, as does the hungry floor. It would be so easy to smash it and sweep the pieces out of sight, out of mind, as if it never happened. The momentary satisfaction of throwing it against the wall would create a mark that will force you to remember it afterward.

Or, if you're the practical type, plunge it into the sink, give it a hard scrub and be done with it. Just cut the pretentious flowery cliches. They speak nothing of your pain, just of your trying far too hard to be a poet when everyone already is.