you were every meal i'd ever had.
were those leftovers, wrapped
in a drunken state at 3 a.m.
just like a serial killer's dessert,
but less appetizing.
curious: prying open my closed meals.
our fridge is fifty eight degrees.
my clammy mouth acts like a whore,
cracked lips, GRINNING
at this luke warm (almost) cum filled sandwich.
shut: the door, as you come home from work
to our manufactured manor
with baked ham from the reduced meat section,
beans, and a six pack for dinner.
shut: UP!, you screamed,
when you noticed i forgot to pay the cable bill
(and i laughed; you couldn't see your pay-per-views that night.)
shut: my eyes before you turn off the light,
because all i want to see
are those eyes that created my affair
that i've had for the past year and a half--
because he is the man
who puts dandelions in the mailbox,
and shows me all the stars he's bought me,
because an angel like me should have thousands.