I like to say I live comfortably
in my own filth, but that's just lies.
My house is disgusting, at least in my eyes.
The ***** clothes mingle
with the clean, all stacked
on the floor, anxiously waiting
to be put away.
I avoid the dishes, like nobody's business,
trading the chore for ***
Is that considered prostitution?
a barter of sorts,
my husband's labors for my services?
Honestly, as long as the bed
is made, I can live
in this pig-sty at least
for another day.