Taste of Leftovers
When he left the car door open.
There was a car after all.
And maybe the stalker whose name I can’t remember.
He raised me from a distance.
Pills don’t last.
Not like drumming sounds, and soundless grumbles.
He gave me a shiny idea and a curse so don’t shame me.
Pills last as long as leftover pizza sometimes.
Crusty.
So there was a car after all.
There is something outside the pill bottle after all.
Shared knowledge knocking and faceless.
Yes, that’s the “They Know” car.
Pills knock around in my purse and run so low.
The stalker told me something I want to remember.
Running out of space like a garage with old journals.
And the journals have journals in them to hide stuff.
When he left the car door open.
He wanted to say “I’m someone you pretended to know.”
And like slime, I smiled.
Pills don’t last.
They raised me from a distance.
And then I needed a refill.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
