I put the daisies you gave me in the walk in
freezer out back. Splayed over bagged chicken
cutlets, racks of ribs, they became small.
The entire room hummed, loud at night,
when the shop became something of a museum.
My father’s apron hung on a crooked nail. The gutted
bodies of cows, lambs hanging upside down by their ankles.
Flanks of meat waxy and wan. Upstairs,
my mother asleep and alone in bed.
My father on the other side of this city,
in that Colombian woman’s home,
washing his hands of blood and other guilts.
And you and I, kissing grey and soft, starving
slowly among all we had.
I swear I could not hate myself more sometimes.
Hellhole, a set on Flickr.A small set showing my current living situation.
Haha being seated next to the guy that didn’t want to date you and then tried sleeping with your best friend while she was almost blacked out drunk while you are having dinner with your boyfriend and he’s on a date and they are both Asian and named Sean and seriously of all the Vietnamese restaurants in the valley
See I’m going to be honest, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you
About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike: Scared
But reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you