I ate soap once - when I didn't think I loved you - I was reaching for something (you always wanted a little denial, when sitting on the couch in your underpants) yes, I swished it around in my mouth and close my eyes and swallowed. a few seconds later I knew I was a lunatic and put my sunglasses on and walked outside. I walked down the street and I didn't think I loved you. I still don't. But the next day I woke up heavy from allergies or black and white dreams, It Was Bob Who'd Held My Hand. Savvy and holistic in the secret strange under dirt lifestyle I tried so hard not to provoke from the door handle with pancake syrup (Noah's been here again, the garbage is tipped over) and you are so
so
sorry for me, but always twisting the red top off the bottle and bottom's up
I don't feel nurtured
I don't feel like I'm naive.
Maybe wasting but still painted onto your two minute per hour memory of (58 minutes for other more obliging subjects, less smart ass and more stylistic) me. Darkly brilliant and
honey, you're not all there
overheard by seven women who think it's easier than it is. And I still don't think I love you.

i like your texture
when you feel guilty about the colors on your face in
the orange ford pickup truck
we pardoned ourselves but didn't bother to speak much
a bobby pin or two leaking out of my head
my interchangeable pieces:
the occipital and such
how could you know that though?
you feel bad about other belligerent thoughts you have about my
singing in the kitchen
my unaccomplished cartwheels
my faltering mind.

but you trade me in
anyway
for a new one.