Spoken Word Artist
The details make it real, so I want them. All of them. Even though I shrink in the knowing. The bedsheets have become a sea of unraveling threads, my voice, the groaning of oars. Lover, lover, please do not knock. The house is cold as a robbed grave; I have sent all your letters to the morgue.
You are half a year
past your first mistake.
His name still sweats in your mouth,
frames every good thing you’ve ever said about yourself.
Stifles every careless laugh.
You swear you’re better now.
Better for it.
But he still doesn’t sleep alone. And you,
lay wide on the bed.