candy is dandy. liquor is quicker. but sex won’t rot yer teeth.
Streaks of toilet paper like lipstick stains down a dirty dress
the only solace in mattresses of cocaine.
plush fabrics brush against oily skin. It’s fine, dear.
And open letter to my boyfriend who I and our children have lived with for six months.
It’s 4:12 AM on October 8th 2017 and I can’t stop thinking about how the dust swirls around us. Unsettling.
We (you) went to bed last night. Separate. Angry. Exhausted.
If there’s anything I learned …
(in no particular order)
the truth is in her eyes and it bears no witness. she whispers,
“daddy, i love you”
clocks turn back time. water swirls upward.
the baby chokes
there is no future