you know, the one with the guy
and that girl in the train station bar
where they just keep trying drinks
and looking at things
and making conversation
while avoiding the big issues?
It’s like that
whenever we talk.
Like, there’s something between us,
curled like an unborn fetus
sucking the life
right out of the womb.
This thing that makes me want to scream out loud
for you
to pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease
just stop talking
because every time you tell me
you care
the fetus wiggles.
And every time you say
“I still want to be friends”
it latches onto some part of my gut
and begins sucking
what little happiness is left in my heart
through my small intestine.
And regardless of how licorice life tastes,
and how many places we visit,
how many drinks we try or times we fuck,
there’s always going to be this empty place,
this space where I let you let the air in
even if I didn’t want it.
You promised this would be simple.