This... This poem satisfies me.

Inspired by those off and on relationships you couldn't live without. Dedicated to Felicia and Angelina Jolie.

Poor baby,
wrinkled and shriveled;
we've been putting this
off far too long;
abortion's our
weapon of choice
this time.

Just a slip of
celestial silence
as a sliver of glass slides
mercifully down your cheek
in the fashion of a star,
and I choke at
the secret fallacy we've
been surreptitiously
spiking the coffee with.

Falling and failing,
but you're only flailing
for sweet, misty words
that can't exist in any
but an unreality. It's our
fate, you twist,
you insist I accept
this slip-up: No regret,

But how could I take
one more
dolled-up lie
without just a slice
of precious bitter resentment?
It's the damn price
of the end
we're both dreading.

Later we'll claim suicide.