Now that I'm settled into another night
of this unsavory gloom, impending doom,
well-marinated in the bitter songs my ex wrote about me
I can start thinking of all the little ghosts of men
I've washed off of myself in the powder room,
some of which still linger in my sheets and in messages,
in empty whiskey bottles and cups of sour wine,
and some of which I keep around to remind myself
how lonely I've managed to remain.
My ex-lover's voice is straining now,
but in spite of the comfortable familiar sound of his wailing,
I only miss the parts about him I've made up with silver lining.
And I'm deadly close to making up solid bodies to those little ghosts, too.
Most of whom should stay swirling deep in the toilet,
or covered in latex in the dustbin.
But I take a pill every day and ignore the many messages.
I hug a soft loneliness and hold seances on the weekends,
bury my dead feelings in a pillow as I scream their several names,
swallow them whole but dribble and fill lines at night
only to cleanse myself of their remnants in the morning.