Cosmo peddles cheating as a feat of self-care,

markets romantic mutilation, sexual seppuku,

in perfumed centerfolds crammed between

ads for cupcake wrappers to period into and

dip sticks to siphon out soured soy-boy semen.

Infidelity is fed to us as sexier when it’s female,

but what about when you’re both girls

or the gamer bro is twice the bitch?

I’ve had both but only gender the revenge.

Cracked computers for boys:

scrambled contacts, waterlogged keys,

no more pixelated consolation porn or

console wars of attrition to ice me out.

No cell reception to Uber escape,

as I CC Mommy and your guild mates

those drag pix with the confused pout

and powder-blue fishnet stockings.  

Blood-smeared sweaters for girls:

snotty remarks and stolen makeup,

donating your Dolls Kill boots to Goodwill

as I sharpen my X-Acto nails on your dime.

Collectible plushies fed to bored strays

like the Cubana you smuggled in overnight

while I opened birthday presents at my parents’.

Maybe women just do pettiness prettier.

Guess To-Do Listing leaving me

just got buried under thirst texts

and mental issues of magazines,

the distraction of crumpling receipts

and budgeting sneak-away stays at

The Emerald Coast and Orchid City.

That’s okay because psychosis

is a temporary state of mind,

as my lawyers will tell you.

Likewise, your agent can inform you

three out of four tires doesn’t count

as an insurable slashing.

All I can say is it would suck

if somebody snipped the shit out

of your only court-worthy suit,

or if a cop found the XTC you bummed

off me in a holy pocket or packet honey-stuck

to your cupholder on a drunken drive from Niko’s.

All I know is anger and adrenaline

puts a becoming glow in my cheeks

and your friends are starting to notice.

Most of all, I like the way the skull & crossbones

symbol gleams in your medicine cabinet.

I’ve got a cellphone charm to match

and learned to smile again staring at it

as another message from your “bestie”

lights it up the same time I know you’ll

be finishing your night cap, wondering

if it’s a little bitterer tonight, all alone.