The breakup

This is the breakup. And now the only make-up is verifiable watermarks smeared across my face. Laugh lines catch broken foundation as a symbolic end to our once jubilation filled interactions. Now we've entered actions of contempt. Sound bites missed, but I'm pissed so you should be too. 76 phone calls and 83 text messages won't explain all I have to say. The middle of I miss you replaced with four-letter oscillating words of misuse, because how can hate the thing you love so much. This is the breakup. Where fuck-ups become permanent blunders. The mind wonders if your good actions were pure, then your bad ones, they must be too. And now that we don't speak.