She threw the lemonade
with passion, I knew she meant it.
It shaved the paint from the wall
behind my bed, where we dreampt last night
of how good it could be
(my arm resting beneath her head,
tingling; falling asleep).
But it's not up to me, she thinks
she's done with this, and that.
And now her voice, slightly slurring,
is saying she wants to "work it out",
to "talk"-- which mostly means yell
at me, like a dog who shit in the corner
of her bedroom. I'm running out of reasons
to keep this effort up. Her golden hair
is dulling, I see the crust and scabs
covered with makeup, that weren't there
last time I looked. But it's my fault that
we got here, so I'll let her choose.
Please excuse me dear, be a little kinder,
I am all you've got left to lose.
No comments:
Post a Comment