Sign up to EliteSkills

And why you do not love me,
and why do I not love myself –
the intercostal space
pierces my house –
both lesser
than a shuddered lash. So help me
(God)
when I kiss the screen
in your forgotten image-

My grandma calls it fate.

ultimately

I could be back ten fifteen years prior –
before I left – my dancing self
said this was it – the brilliant winter sky
framed in a sudden window, and parquet
all for my taking –

the promise
I never quite fulfilled.

So what is there left for me
except misquoting Rilke
and drinking too-sweet Baileys
out of a pornstar chute
pretending I can smell Amalfi lemon
in my cheap cheap
perfume?