Fruit Case

 

i regret that i didn’t write in your margins

now i’m sitting down in the elevator

 

crying Sriracha hot chili

pressing delete. delete.

 

your smile running through me like a stop sign

because all i kept saying was keep straight, keep straight.

 

you ran into my fruit case, mucked up

the strawberries filled with helium–

 

this would have been

what the rest of our life would’ve amounted to:

 

saying i’m sorry like that was good enough,

leaving movies on my doorstep-

 

your newfound appreciation for the way i’m

“moving the fuck on” as if i’ll ever be satisfied,

 

as if you’ll ever be more than everything you compensate for.

Picture from Kevin&Amanda
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the stove is dirty

You left the stove dirty,
the bathroom sink running,
and the refrigerator door open.

You also left your smell on me
and it’s so intoxicating
that I can hardly breathe even.

It’s a day to be a gush of air and sleep in,

to let you know that I
thoroughly hold you responsible.
That I hold you accountable

for taking too long to realize
what I spelled out for you.
For being my one and a possible.

For being a rhinoceros.

“So what you’re saying is that
it’s my fault that you were constipated?”

I begged your pardon.
I gave you options.

I was huffy. I lost oxygen.
I may ram the fuck
out of somebody’s back knees with a grocery cart.

And that will be just how angry I am
about you having no consequence for your actions.
…And I get to pucker in suffering,

and stuff like that.

Like you leaving the refrigerator open,
the sink running, and the stove…
baby, the stove is still dirty.

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