She’s my fuzzy love,
my medicated mornings
that roll over, turn in, turn out,
and spin my stomach
til’ he falls out with my head.
She is not sorry.
No diazepam apology
ever graced my ears.
No beta-block bargaining,
No fluoxetine forgiveness.
She’s cold and hard
but soft when I need support-
I fall right through
her flimsy grasp.
She’ll tell me she misses me
as she comes up with my *****.
She says she wants a break
when I swallow her.

One time I crushed her and sniffed her.

One time I drowned her in whisky.

One time I sprinkled her like seasoning.

She ****** me every time.

an unspoken word
for every hole
drilled in the core
of held beliefs

red-hot mantle
cools by degree
losing its fluidity
silver surface thin

molten river beneath
restless currents
roil and boil
mixing strata

we become
bitter metal
iron hardening
under pressure

Our house is a black box.
We drape every window

but one, a pinhole
to capture the sun.

At night our eyes go dark as ink.
Our memories marbleize at
the edge of the bedroom.

Come morning,
we are nothing

but inverted images
fed by shared light.

You tell me to smile
and I braid your hair.

Upstairs, the children
develop like ghosts.

I put on another record
and the dark disc spins,

its needle lulled
into grooves the way
you are lulled into me.

We could almost dance together,
but the couple at the window

will not move until
we come into focus.