Leave me the mix tapes, please.
They’re the best of you.
 
But take the television.
It’s contaminated
by WWF.
 
I remember you
staying up nights
putting those sounds together
just to please me.
 
But then I have this image
of your proxy behemoth,
growling and grunting,
muscles amplified by steroids,
pounding some look-a-like
into the mat.
 
I’ve always been practical.
You have a bad habit
of over-leaning on others.
 
So I keep the micro-wave.
You go back home
with your grandmother’s prize dishes
between your legs.
 
It’s my first genuine breakup with a guy.
It’s not a question of who owns what.
But what owns you.
What owns me.