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.