I wish each blunt I'd smoke
would erase a letter of your name
from the top of my lungs.

You see, you've changed my name
to "C'est la vie, Darling".
My mother died later that year
so the phone calls addressing my forgotten self
stopped eventually.

Two Thursdays ago I had cinnamon buns with Hades.
He was such a flirt with
these benevolent eyes of liquid brown
mirroring my self hate
and bad dub;
casting me away
from your smell in my apartment
right before you wash the day off your mortal flesh.

He bought me scented candles
and invited me to where the roots are,
and there wasn't enough oxygen
to lit up my blunt.