I want to go home,
really,
but where is it?
I kept driving,
even after
missing my exit
you'll be waiting
to yell at me,
for wasting gas
not getting the kids
food, not letting
the dogs out.
Maybe you won't
my games won't be on.
It'll be silent in the house,
except the whimper
of a baby.
Your baby. Not mine.
You don't want to have
sex with me anyways,
not since she—
you know what.
That was low of me
to bring it up
but my foot remained
on the pedal.
How do I always end up
with broken men
and how do I always end up
breaking men?
