Yes it’s true, your face is quite the train wreck
Your musk drives the molded cheese to envy.
Everywhere you go, people always check
To see the trail of rotting behind thee.

When some person asks, “paper or plastic?”
It is not a question meant for your goods.
For your features are often so drastic
That the public cries out your need for hoods.

Yet a midst the rotting grapes of your eyes
And the corn husk hair on your peeling face,
Lies a certain beauty found deep inside.
It turns all to compost, nourishing grace.

Bananas are sweet, even with dull skin.
Like how your true flavor, is found within.

He loved me with the fierceness of a friday night
(Wine, smoke and moving hips)

You loved me with the tenderness of a tuesday morning
(Blinds, sunlight and fingertips)

In the morning she eats garlic,
A bowl of them, boiled in a mixture.
Then medicine, then some kind of a
Breakfast. She stares into the blank
Of a day. Everything the same.
She does her usual things: clean,
Sweep, exercise, sometimes she reads.
I do not know what she does in the day,
Only the setting sun tells me of the lights
She doesn’t leave on, because “electrical bills”.

He says she spoiled the fridge, the kettle,
Even the tv doesn’t make a sound anymore.

She’s like a child. She whines, laughs,
Tells me off. She observes, dismisses.
She is the dying tip of an autumn leaf.
My silence is the autumn wind.
Cold, but not cold enough.

I do not know of the things she does in the day.
What does she do when the food is cooking in the pan?
Or when it rains and she rushes to save the laundry.
Only the chattering and muttering
From her creased mouth,
(the neighbours, groceries, the tv)
Tells me that she speaks only to herself.

She switches the tv on
before she leaves the house.
She sleeps before 9 pm.

She leaves in June, and I don’t know what she does in the day.

We have grown into fresh peaches,
Full blooming curves, rosy surfaces.
Each teeming with the desire
To be handled by a pair of hands.
So, tell me little peach,

How did it feel like to have your juice
Run down his throat?

We are no longer flower childs,
We are maidens, suddenly seated in front
Of the mirror, the ends of our hair
Carrying the weight of our youth.

Mornings, i sit with my knees
propped up like a temple and I pray
that love come as close as loneliness does.

(One night I tried to kiss my own arms
-a train track from elbows to wrists to fingers-
With the lights off. Was it my lips or arm that burned?
In the interlude of tears between my closed eyes
I wondered what it’ll be like
To have another claim me by the mouth
Like that.)

Even when I’m not in love
I’m more in love than you are
In love.