Blame

 

Nagging bitch,
no grey to pass around.
A stabbing twitch, destruction bound.
I am the one who is awake
and cleaning, making meaning,
while he snoozes.

I’m too focused on keeping score
but it all adds up
to stop and analyze the ringing
in my ears… empty beers

I have no seven-year itch aching,
but I’m constantly breaking
and I never get my way
whatever you say

I sometimes change my mind too fast, sordid past
and I don’t hear anything while I read
or while I bleed.

He holds it so hard against me.
Minced meat

He shakes me when he’s bringing a shovel through
and trust me, we’re through
the snow, needing a Thank You
but Fuck You.

It must be me: ungrateful, egotistical, me.
Don’t you see?

He’ll cast this comment,
and I become numb
fragments of a melodramatic bore.

Anticipating the explosion weeks before it comes,
my going’s not gone yet,
waiting for the shrinking I feel
when faced with regrets.