The weird thing is,
my coffee tastes like soap. Sweet.
Apples and peaches.
Mangoes and dish soap.
Tastes like I've been bad. Like I've been cussing.
Like a floral punishment.
(But I keep on sipping. Haven't reached my stop yet, so, you know, got
(more)ta give myself something to do with these
idle hands and all).
And it tastes like how my kitchen smells
after I've washed my plates, my bowls--
(scraping mold out into the trash,
collected from being left in the fridge too long).
Mild, pickled banana pepper jars that I keep,
and use like glasses.
(and with every day, I forget a little bit more
of what exactly the difference is
between upcycling and hording.
Boring myself, tho, over the details.
And its not like I'll get rid of them anyways.
So, you know,
what is the difference?)
The weird thing is,
how long it took me torrent Paul Simon's
complete discography.
Seeing how it keeps me
bouncing. Happy.
And you know,
I haven't been so depressed lately.
(That is, of course, if you don't count the night
I drank that bottle of Riesling all by myself.
Then showed my tits
to torsos on Omegle.
Called them faggots while they mashed
their fists into their pelvises.
I gave them kisses while screaming
the Patriarchy they push into my throat tastes like soap.
A punishment
for something I haven't done yet.
Bad girls and consequences.
Incidents and accidents).
In the morning, all that's left is a wet spot.
And even tho I'm not sure if it's wine or mine.
I lap it all up anyways.
The weird thing is,
such a lovely sight it is,
your babygirl--in her bra and panties--
dancing to Afro-pop in a kitchen that smells like
sweet apples and troubled nights.
Like peaches and mangoes.(less)
