Intent
I really wish I didn’t have to kill you
but your damn obsession with the game show network
and green apples, always green apples. God forbid anything
red stain those pale pink crescents that turned downwards
when I asked you to leave. We’re going in circles babe.
Round and round a carousal of fucked up memories.
You sloppily kissing a bridesmaid at my sister’s wedding
baby pink dresses and your tongue poisoned with champagne
and a high school fetish for red heads and humor. I’m dry.
Brown pine needles only good for fires and ruining
your backyard landscape and maybe if we cut the tree down
we won’t deal with dying parts crushing the daffodils.
I can’t look outside without being forced on the carnival ride.
I think I’m going to throw up. You left one sock and I wonder
if you’re standing in your apartment wondering where
the matching pair is and when you think that maybe I have it
you bite into a green apple and think to buy another pair at Walmart.
I could burn this cotton memory but I’m afraid of matches
and going to McDonalds after eleven when we’d buy food
with quarters and complain if they put ketchup on your burger.
I always thought your were picky and selfish and when I told you
I was surprised I didn’t cry and you did. We bought those
suitcases together, you took them but I still hear the water running
at three p.m. trying to hide your self-love because I refuse
to touch you anymore. I scrubbed the sheets until
my knuckles were white but I still smell you, sweet
sweat mixed with gasoline. I’ll burn these too. And the
photos and dump the organic orange juice down the drain
but it still won’t erase the flickering lights enticing me
to play this game, be this tall to ride this ride even though
I hate roller coasters but your presence and exit turned my life
into a game of pretend you don’t haunt me. I always lose.
So I’ll make voodoo dolls out of overripe bananas that only
you would eat and root beer floats and bury you
in the backyard near the flowers I no longer water.