each day i reach your door
like a wet rag with a pulse.
heartbeat ticking,
hand hammering.
here’s your pills—
stabby, pretty, blue.
my fingerprints turn into bruises;
i forget my name.
shattered feet.
socks from last week.
air tastes like floor tiles.
i think the pill looked at me first.
you never ask what’s in it,
only if i still want you to take it.
your eyes orbit my pearl earring
like satellites.
bourgeois flaws taste better imported.
“jolie laide,”
tattooed where your heart should be.
you once told me:
i love ugly things, they last longer.
i mailed my neck to your ancestors.
no return address,
no name, no guilt.
pupil to pupil—
will you know
you never knew.
hope dies once
in a bag of dollars,
hollow with pennies.
you swallow orders like gospel.
who gave you empty vessels?
i bit the pill of idiots in half,
wore it as lipstick,
kissed your ego
until it foamed.
i leave the door ajar for ghosts;
they smelled like your cologne.
once,
you called me
your softest affair.
pill quartered.
earring taken.
no knocking.
goliath shadows hover,
even in the walls.
this one licked the floor
where your heart used to be.
coiling the summit
of your heart,
gisting my heels
engraved on the floor i missed.
your name clogs my throat
like i deepthroated grief.
i stitched my eye shut
to stop seeing you.
still,
visions came
through my teeth.
i licked
daily,
tender storms
into silent lakes.
my white crayon
wrote you a letter
in the middle of rain:
be peace,
and if not peace,
a a pale spill
that remembers me.
there was a time someone simply refused to leave my thoughts, lodged in that corner at 4:45 each day. it made me realise how intoxicating the presence of unapologetic immorality could be. that audacity, that lawless disregard, it’s pure bewitchment. danger, maybe. desire, absolutely. edges always entice. sticky. relentless. kind of ****.
