I been dreaming things I’m not sure happened. Like the backdoor’s locked, latched shut, two deadbolts with a chain. The yard’s a goddamn pigsty and you’re back there wallowing, pleading. Sick thing is I shouldn’t give a fuck. Haven’t in years, I’m pure as the Sistine Chapel. Only fresco’s plaster, wet as you used to get when I made you laugh so hard you pissed yourself, back when I could slip inside you with half a glance and a kiss on the cheek.
Now I’m not who I used to be and you’re lying, staring at me, flat on your back like you always hated. “Better for both of us,” you hiss, tying me to the teeter-totter with a jump rope.
We’re why the door’s locked, fucking while I listen in my pjs, sipping warm milk. I got the scars to prove it. That’s all. If it sounds like I miss you, I don’t. Am I lonely? Sure. Not really. I’m waiting for you to come, let me out so I can clean up after.
Now I’m not who I used to be and you’re lying, staring at me, flat on your back like you always hated. “Better for both of us,” you hiss, tying me to the teeter-totter with a jump rope.
We’re why the door’s locked, fucking while I listen in my pjs, sipping warm milk. I got the scars to prove it. That’s all. If it sounds like I miss you, I don’t. Am I lonely? Sure. Not really. I’m waiting for you to come, let me out so I can clean up after.
