This Place Ain’t For Sale, Just Rent
Poetry had left me several days before—
left our whole damn apartment a mess.
“Thees” and “thous” were strung across the ceiling
like spit wads, a careless collage of phrases—
his last big bash, before our eventual collapse.
He didn’t even bother to clean up the ink smears
across the wooden floor where he kissed me—
my knees, elbows, and nose—and when he kissed my mouth,
his words swelled as they slid down my throat,
causing me to choke.
I rushed to the toilet, huck-yacking
“halcyon”, “scintilla”, “mellifluous” and the final letters of “ethereal”
came out with a projectile splat on the side of the bowl.“Eh,” I flushed, “Prose is a better lover, anyway.”
