I put that stool in the bathroom just to make that joke.
The one about how you can’t reach the sink.
Because you’re shorter than me but it never really felt that way.
I bet you put flowers in her basket, that look just like the ones she painted.
I bet you grin so stupid and place them behind your back so it’s a surprise when they fall in.
You put it in my mouth. (My basket)
And sound like a whale roaming the sea for hours in pitch blackness moaning when you cum.
When you die over me. When you melt into my back and thank me.
Like a whore. But you wouldn’t dare call me that out loud.
She’s your porcelain beauty,
And I watch you sweaty from the window.
She is sheet white and shining,
Hairs falling so perfectly out of a clip.
I am indulging in your online photos,
Admiring how you kiss her neck so much more gentle than mine.
You ate my neck and you sip hers.
Drink her in.
“She’s my rock. My steady. My constant.”
She is your still river twelve feet deep. Your spring stream of clean water.
I am the rock in your shoe waiting for you to take me out.
You talk about her like I wish you’d just think of me, eyes all wide. You talk about her and I’m so busy being the cool girl I help you understand what she needs.
You don’t hear me croon while you monologue.
I wake up sick everyday, and go to bed with butterflies.
You guys ride bikes in Portland.
And you can’t bring yourself to kiss me when my body isn’t promised.