You told stories of the UV index when it resembled the color blue,
of animal anatomies, the size of Earth, forgetting your manners.
I told you a story of maggots swarming at the flesh of swine.
I told you a story of a violent child finding maturity, maybe.
I told you a story of the post-apocalyptic world while walking through a pond.
They all seemed appropriate at the time.
Then I hated you for the vomit that was on the rug you left me to
clean, from too much red and too many tears that you left me to appease.
We wrote and we compromised.
Looking back we never knew why.
I could hear you whisper when you thought I couldn’t.
We had wins and losses in the reds and whites.
You spoke like you knew the ins and outs of the alpha and the omega.
Your lucky number was nowhere near that number four
but both implied perfection. I was an unfortunate first.
I studied too hard for things that wouldn’t be graded,
like which strings pulled at what, and grassy trails promising return.
You complained about the snow,
so I removed myself quickly.
Everything you left me with would just have to suffice.