How to Choke Myself in the Ugly Kitchen
When I stumbled on the kitchen floor,
I actually believed in a counterclockwise wonderland—
colorful macaroons and a mouthful of sherbet. Dried
skin flaked in my long hair. It covered
my lineless back. I saw some moles.
Then he called me, Sweetie—
without kissing my forehead.
Once he drilled a hole and hung a phone from the 1970s,
and painted the wall in a puke yellow.
I shoveled a spoonful of instant coffee into my mouth.
an extra season of endless fields . . .
The postcard fell from the refrigerator.
Sweetie, he called me from behind a leather couch.
The TV remote is lonely on the carpet.
I wiped my hands with a paper towel and said, I am here.
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