As I storm from the chaos
something in their volume,
overpowering the clamor
of my feet pounding ceramic,
tells me they want to kill
because they love me
as I was ten years ago,
but after adding words
screamed like bulls-eyes
onto their imperfections,
and seven doses of “I won’t
be home tonight” or hopefully ever,
and mostly emotions that are not
just the echoes of their socially
fucked charades, I know
they would prefer me
4 feet shorter or 6 feet under.
Neighbors queries save me
but as the blood drains
from their ruin of a kitchen,
I wish I could do them a favor.



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