We didn't work
because my brand of love
is bargain-bin CVS romance novel,
there are no fairy tales in which the prince battles addiction,
the princess starves herself all day to make the two beers left in the kitchen
last longer than they were meant to.
Nothing was eloquent in the way we sat on her mattress,
anger seated deeply in our stomachs,
bugs hiding in the curtains, buzzing invisibly,
comforting to me as I felt invisible too,
the sun trickling anemically
through cobwebs and window panes.

We didn't work
because a picket fence will never feel like home to me,
I don't drive so well at night, she smiles
so pretty when I'm not around,
I've heard,
all teeth, and laughs gutturally
in that way she used to
when my fingertips gripped the edges of her
ribcage, before my skin got so rough.
Her eyes are bluer
than the chemical cleaner I use to scrub pots
for rent money, my tongue
just as harsh as she folds into herself
like origami and I ask
what the hell kind of shape it's supposed to be.

We didn't work
because we craved the pieces that were missing,
it made the puzzle hard to look at straight-on,
and I speak in clichés,
and she barely speaks at all,
and that silence broke my bones.