Posted in Poetry

Midterm

I had a test on Sunday—
it’s the one where
you shit
yourself.

I don’t
even remember
what I wrote down
for the third
question;

How’s your vagina?”

The older I get, the worse
my handwriting gets.

It’s just so hard to
think when you know
he’s gonna leave.

Man, all that I could
focus on was how
cold my bum is,
without a
ginch on.

-11.20.17

Posted in Poetry

Dysfunctional and Rusty

I want her
to tell me
that she loves
me.

No butter, no grease; I mean
it’s just
biology.

She’s changed so much. I guess
she thought she had it all
figured out, but she’s just like her mother:
all dysfunctional
and rusty.

The older we get, the more
she wants to show
me, but I just know
we’ll be divorced in 6 months.

The best we can hope for is to avoid any litigation.

-11.18.17