I have wanted to be rid of the snakeskin
of your fingertips
from the inside of my
doorknob ever since you left for Cape Town.
You interrupted me
with your sweaty poster-paint hands
and pulled your sticky
skin over my head
like a thief's stocking,
I had no room to breath
the stale air
hyperactive bacteria crawling
over my blue lips. I was numb
from being squeezed
between your bitten fingernails.
Later, I wanted to inject you
into the skin you left me in
to ooze out of,
finding myself oily and shapeless:
A sewer puddle without surface tension:
From 'The End: ...good riddance to bad rubbish' in Goodbye Songs & Thank you Notes.
Fiction is the lie that tells the truth ... (Neil Gaiman)