The bodies had left the house.

The memories glued to the dust behind walls.

The childhood voices sunken into mattresses, garbage.

Stains in a bathtub. Overused. The smell of a fridge.

Toaster. Burned.  Everything she collected. What he built

With his own hands. What he thought would last forever.

Everything that they were able to endure.

The silence within a scream.

 

The yellow taste of basements, the cold air erupting

Out of nowhere. The vines across the outside wall.

The shed and shelves unused post-mortem, looking

For you in trees, in sand, unboxed, the cliff into your

Abyss. The kisses you cashed in. The insecurities in my

Spine. The shrine of all our voices, the urn on the chest

Of drawers. Checkmate. Family in. Family out. I forget my

Name when I’m drunk.

 

Next to you. The arms that are dead. Long ago in my dreams.

Nightmares on my skin. Touched by you.

Narrated by your stories. Fog and dust.

Neediness and despair, the fury bouncing in a glass.

Against a wall. The heat and moisture in my hair.

Your calamitous sex, so lost and acidic, the clock stops

Ticking, the women are whispering, swallowing everything,

Their own tongue, their opinions, forgetting their safety exits.

Your cum everywhere, sheets, oven, glass jar, my face on pictures.

 

Lips spreading, I eat my tears, lost my own salt,

You and me, the life-size window, running through,

Naked and presumably free, without a worry,

Kicking her in the stomach, revolt against true love,

Unseen, it can’t be her, it must be him with the roughness

Of his cheeks, the saviour instinct, the money haven, the roof

Over my head, the presence. I’ve been betrayed by both

Absence, his, and presence, his, body bag, garbage truck.

grayscale photo of two women lying on white surface
Photo by Fillipe Gomes on Pexels.com

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