She’s laying on bed with her iPod on full blast.
The door is locked, and the curtains are drawn.
On the TV screen is The Notebook.
An empty tub of her favorite Ice-cream lies on the floor.
Smudged with makeup, her fingertips are stained
from wiping away her mascara and eye liner stained tears.
Their last conversation plays in her head.
She thinks to herself, that she’ll never get him back.
He’s on the edge of his bed, the doors locked.
His room is pitch black from the absence of lights.
Black Ops is in its box and the controller is on the floor.
There’s a hole in the wall from when he punched it earlier.
His headphones are about to burst from how loud the music is.
No one can hear his sobs or see how messy his hair is.
He is replaying their last conversation, thinking,
she’ll never take him back.