If I could, I would

remove every inch of skin 

you’ve ever touched, 

peel off my epidermis layer,

strip by strip, 

and bathe myself in bleach.

Even then,

I would not be clean.

Perhaps I should, 

lay on burning coals 

until my flesh 

liquifies,

until I am 

nothing 

but a pile of molten sludge.

Or

I could wade

into The Nile 

with weights strapped 

to my ankles

and let the crocodiles

flay the meat off my bones.  

If I could, I would 

unhear every lie you’ve ever told,

pierce my eardrums 

with a P.F. Chang’s chopstick.

The deceit runs red.

I’ll make myself forget every memory 

that we made together

by slamming my head against the wall,

cracking my skull 

into a thousand blackouts.

I could just sniff carbon monoxide,

the silent killer,

urging my throat to swell

and my lungs to burst, 

expelling your stale saliva 

from my being. 

If that doesn’t work,

I’ll chug windex out of a martini glass.

Can’t be much worse than Grey Goose

and an olive. 

You’ll love this one.

Picture me hanging from the ceiling fan, 

twirling around and around.  

A maroon stained neck,

rubbing against a twisted rope,

just like one of those dainty ballerinas,

think Swan Lake.

Watch 

the feathers fall.

A saffron glow emerges in the distance, 

breathing comes to a slow, 

and I have erased you completely.