Writing

You picked me because I was             "perfect"-

you took me from my comfort spot,

my           home-

to put me on display for others to judge,

A room lit by one lamp, 
shoes next to a wireframe bed; 
an artist's home where art and time have made their stamp. 
A room lit by one lamp 
where the cozy gloom clamps 

Laying in a cardboard box

You grab me from all I've known

Across the dusty conveyor belt 

And into your car I go 

And with this I leave my life, my family, my temporary home

Avoidance.

And that's the thing

That drove you and I apart

That made the click less magnetic

Flipping the sides over

So we couldn't do it anymore.

I need to talk about it

To get it over with

means head of the year,

tippy-top, press restart, new year, wind it up, begin again,

clean slate, fresh sheet of paper. so get out your markers.

we're going to draw ourselves a better world.

i hate watching

you. i hate the blood

that pumps underneath your right hand

and runs through you red and thick and salty--

i hate your stubborn lips, mouthing

every 

word.

i wish i didn't wonder