In my head, my argument is perfectly lucid, compelling:
all the reasons that you’re better off with me than without me;
my refutations of all the ambivalent points you presented;
the conditions under which I might decide to return
when you realize your mistake.
and at the end of this argument
my heart hurts more
I’m ready to be done with pointless thoughts,
but you’re stuck in me,
like something I forgot I knew,
like a memory on perpetual replay,
like a too-large bite
that I can’t quite swallow.
Slut of the Cloth 
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