It was no surprise when you walked out my door because to you, loving me was some kind of chore. So I picked up your slack, swept up the dirt and hid it all under the welcome mat. Whatever. You left, leaving me with your mess. The corners you didn't dust. Misty window panes and wrinkled laundry. And you still expected me to box and label your trash for you to pick up. Not surprising. You didn't even care about me, why would your things be any different. Come get your own junk. I'm tired of doing all the work.
Jerk.
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