Movie Script Ending

We are renovating the D-Town studio.
We are taking down the lighting,
all of it.

We are painting the walls.
All the walls.

We (meaning 99% Taylor)
ripped out the weird 
and ugly blue shelving.

It makes me feel
good, working like this.
It is so great.
We're making the studio
look nice.
And professional.

And it's fun.
It's a feel-good thing.

And today,
I got my poetry medal
in the mail.
It is a little gold
round medal-pendant
on a nice purple ribbon.

It says I am a published poet,
in 2012, and that I won the Editor's 
Choice Award.

I am so happy with it.
It feels good to have a medal.

I wore it when I came home.
I usually don't do that sort of thing.

But my day went south
around 3:00 pm.

I needed some feel-goods.

Because whenever she 
comes up in conversations
I feel immediately sick
to my stomach.
I wanted to leave,
to cry.

Instead I helped renovate.

Because imagining him with anyone
is a sucker punch for me.

Turkeys come with their entrails
in plastic bags inside of them.

Somebody ripped
out my plastic baggy 
of
guts.

I am a gutless turkey.

Because I love him,
and I told my psychologist
about this whole years-long ordeal
and he was a little stumped.
He said he has to think about it.
Because I see him everyday,
so avoidance is an impossible
tactic to use.

It felt weird,
it was awkward
to describe out goings-ons.
The music and the books
and the conversations.

I am thoroughly sad at this point.

But I took my aggression out
on a rowing machine at the Y
and felt a little better.

But I want to punch him
in the guts
so he knows how this feels.

Sorry this is a dumb stupid feelings
blog post but
I do what I want.