The Return of Little Miss November

I broke up with her post-
Thanksgiving.

Right to
the end, she was
the gold digger and my head
was the vault.

I was
her tenure,
custodian, sick
sense of
adventure, her
opium.

She’s my record of assault.

Little miss November,
the only need for
censorship I ever had.

Little miss dressed
to kill with
an ironclad will, ain’t victimization

a bitter pill?

(Keep running
that mouth, sweetie, ain’t like
you got a tongue that requires

any skill to use.)

Little miss November, the
veteran pretender pretending
she won’t be

on my step tomorrow,

wild child with
hair like early winter,
soliciting her

sorrows.

Little miss paramour,  whom I met when she asked for a smoke outside the corner store; who kissed me on the lips with an insincere promise (“I will be forever yours”); who fell between two solstices and thus burned every scrap of solace with molten precision.

Allow me to show you the door.

Related:
Little Miss November

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