Evicta.

kind of like being evicted from your home,

but you hadn’t paid rent in like three months,

so you accepted the water being shut off and sleeping in darkness,

and wandering the floor looking for your matches,

deciding whether to light a cigarette or your last candle.

I swear, these were the last romantics,

the way you told me, baby, swim calmly through my melted veins,

drink whiskey from my corrosive mouth,

leave your entrails by the mattress on the floor,

you are no whore because you are loved.

and it’s like being evicted from a home, you signed a lease for,

and paid rent every month, and someone kept breaking your windows,

and letting your dog out,

and leaving used condoms on the doorstep,

and rushing into the house and the smoke detector is going off,

and you just got the notice, that you have been voted off the island,

and there’s no use in trying.

kind of like his hands on your sweaty thighs,

and running his fingers through greasy hair,

and watching bad movies on Netflix, and struggling to find sentiment,

for the burns on your skin and the way you feel so good even when feeling numb and anxious.

It’s like drowning but without all the water,

and breathing without all the oxygen,

like bleeding without all the shreds of love in your hands,

and in your mouth, and knives were taken from you at the scene of the crime,

so you evicted the next lover from your shattered heart,

as he rushed tsunami-style through your mind,

and pummeled everything in your path,

shot at the glass ceiling in your soul,

and never picked up the pieces. It’s kind of like that.

But what is that, exactly?

I’ll let you know when I stop roaming from every home,

that sat in my chest and I had to remove the bones,

so I could leave again when they asked me to.

But who is who, exactly?

I don’t know. I probably never will.