the oven I always thought I loved
no I did not date him though it's possible I dreamed about it
he had phrases like grubby fingers
he used my emotional anchor
pale pellets of songs over and over and over and over and over playing their hail into my hair
the bergamot shampoo either smells really good or is poison or both
but his new job could bring him redemption
I cannot answer any of your questions I can't even hold a piece of conversation
no starchy vegetables at all to back you up
no cooking just blank rice and "sir" and the possibility always of a cold pending the morning
vulnerable to mildew but claiming not to be
why could I never tell you that I was too sick to fuck
my hands shake with my throat
I have the cut up images we made together cut even further
none of you made me feel whole
not so much art as its application
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