You can screw me
in the kitchen.
It’s the best
we can do.
We’ve wrecked
the rest
of the house already.
We’ve torn down
the curtains,
spattered the paint
with our venom
and our bile.
We’ve ripped the sheets,
smashed the chairs.
We’ve cut a swath through our
once happy home. I’ve
called you names I can’t take back.
You’ve looked at me with
eyes full of spite.
We’ve robbed each
other
of the will to love.
Now here we are, ready
to come
crashing down.
I’m exhausted and delirious.
You’re breathless
and bruised. We’ll peel off
each other’s
sticky clothes and lie down
here
among the mess we’ve made.
There’s no fight left in me.
Let’s make this one the last.
We’ll have one more throwdown
before we call it quits.
We’ve raved and we’ve screamed
and we’ve shredded
everything that was good.
Now we’ll ravage each other
in the middle of the ruin
of our domestic bliss.
There’ll be shards of crockery
in your back,
and bits of glass
in my thighs.
And then, before it stops,
there’ll be the shells
of broken eggs, clinging to your palms,
and smears of burst fruit,
heaved against the floor,
congealing, sweet
between our stomachs.
And then we’ll fall asleep, wrung out
by the violence of our ending,
and I’ll wake up,
and you’ll be gone.
