My father's ghost follows me through the apartment.

Slouch.

Slouch away to the places where you fall asleep
after i tell you
not to come
back if
you want
to take
a walk
to clear
your
fucking
head.

Dressed to kill,
in my ripped up retro dress
I cook.

Polka dots.

Serving you up a tasty
and perfectly baked
ego.

Requiring praise.

I only apologize because you only say it was delicious six times.

I'm looking for eight.

You smile when I snap at you to take off your watch
because the ticking drives me insane.

And I wonder when you'll get tired of my madonna hands
counting and scrubbing.

As he completes his life without me,
Vertical could where horizontals don't.

As if read and you

if that roach had touched me I think I would have died
and you
could replay

Slouch.

On pieces of frailty where you
slam
others who could
account where
you would
not.

It's merely a human to human handshake,
but i refuse to touch the germs
only to bitch about my own produced
persistent failings
of an ex wife you claim
you never got.

Reapplying deoderant,
a hundred times a day.
Making you
check in the morning for monsters
in our bathroom.

You're made of brick and much stronger stuff
than I.

Counting your breaths
I forget to enjoy the ways our bones click
when you wonder where i am
absent mindedly
making love.

But i sure as hell
forget to count the smiles
and excitement as fucking soon
as the second you don't greet me with a kiss.

You bought me at face value,
and yet
you love me at face value.


Dainty
fluffy and pink,
you hold my hand
as I avoid steep steps
in my new shoes,
all for elegance's sake.



bipolar me

with a sponge in hand

and another counting syllables

but it is never like that

of a 'fuck you.'


Hourly contributions
assigned to dirty surfaces
praying for just enough bleach
to at least to get me through
a day.


I must stop

cleaning

the

fucking house

when I'm having a fat day.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others