i'm screaming fix it at the top of my lungs
and i'm inches from your sweaty forehead
and your eyes are the color of a sky
that's too pale, like someone's been stealing
the pigment one drop at a time

when you're unsure or sad or disturbed
they look down at the worn concrete
littered with cigarette butts and footprints
of drunken idiots just like us, not into my own

and we're sitting outside of the place
we all call home, where the ***** is too
cheap and the faces are all familiar
so much so that they start to blur
no matter if you're on your fourth, seventh, or twelfth

you're telling me the blame is
not going to fall on my shoulders,
but i feel it rain down like tiny pebbles
all pooling between bone and skin to
create one giant boulder inside of my chest

and perhaps it's because i know the words
that snake their way from your lips to my ears
will soon be covered in slime
from the regurgitation they will undergo
as they are repeated, perhaps with more conviction
the second time around,
but to another set of ears

it's interesting that as a woman i have
never felt more like an object than right now,
and it's at your hands, the man who promised
to never let anything compromise
the bond that tethered us together
through early afternoon games of catch, bowl smoking
before class, and long talks that left us out of breath

it seems you've erased who i really am in your
mind and replaced her with a giant
cardboard cut out - thinner, taller, more beautiful,
and much more compelling to stake claim over