You pulled out my tongue to garnish the dinner plate of lies
you liked to tell when we were drunk,
but I guess I was an aftertaste you couldn’t stomach.
And maybe I’m a little tired of it,
but it’s not the kind of thing I like to admit-
that I’ve been pulling my guts out,
like some kind of magic trick.
They’re strewn all around this home we share
like an art installation-
serpentine and bloody they coat the walls,
vines and rotten fruit,
a pulpous stump in the center of the room.