my anger has manifested
into sore throats, the perpetual
swallow, even while you sleep--
that no saliva, cotton ball in your
chest soaking up the living, leaving
me high and dry, contemplating
the meaning of every idiom,
every moment, every customer
that orders five 20oz mochas
and doesn't leave a single
tip but works on the block
and complains about local
business.

The longest day
I've ever known
was the one I
wasted
waiting
for you to miss me

You're not
worth my
poetry

I'll give you a moment to
pick up your life
and then we'll see if
I'm in your hands or
still on the
floor.

I left my
windows
wide open
and every-
thing dried
up, the organs
in the cabinets
the lilies on the
ribs, the weekend
was the worst and
monday is just an
empty cup.