The pepper's broken
I tell you to fix it
You moan and whine

You tell me to get wine
Your favorite is 30 bucks
You say it tastes like sulfides

You tell me to get rid of my boxes
You tell me to get rid of my boxes
I leave my books in a four foot stack

On the bench
(That i asked you to clear so i could sit
To put on my shoes)
In front of the shattered print
That you always hated that my cousin gave me
And next to your bags and bags
That you won't get rid of.

You tell me I'm an *******.

You tell me nothing
and when i ask
You tell me nothing's
wrong
You tell me go away
You tell me don't leave
You tell me not to type so loudly
You tell me not to sit alone in the bathroom
You tell me not to write you letters
Well this isn't for you.

You chase me around telling telling yelling me.

everything
feels that it keels
over
like a
pinball
in a machine—
hits green

and falls to your fingers.
save it
or you die

but you have two ***** left
and that's all you need.

Bluntly, you
are country-
bumpkin,
eat a pumpkin,

yams, and an
order of deli hams,
underdone just for fun.

Afterwards, give the
rats the words to
eat the leftovers.

Ask me about my

conch shell, go to hell,
unless of course that suits you well.
Never mind, now it's
time to quiet down.

they call it diamond fever
everyone's engaged

i'd like to be a small ocean every day
ebbing, flowing

with a few tumultuous tidal waves.

Instead, the dishwasher, laundry machine
washing over
every second
with routine.

i am looking for words to make me speak again.
being stuck unlistened, and chastened to my own,
your own thoughts, has me forgetting how loud
i can yell. Your name
means nothing to me— that's a lie. But I can't be close
to it. Don't worry it's a "that thing and mean" kind of
hate, where that thing is the only thing i think
about. you, you were once so significant, and now
you are depleted to ash with all your hate for me
and mine for you.

at least it makes something, writing