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Messy
A fraction of home,
Can she come to me? See?
Ignore the useless bodies,
They can’t have what’s mine.
Can’t even tell what’s a lie,
What is living? (Living, living, living.)
Why do you come back?
Dread is all it is,
It can’t hurt me, but my home SUFFERS
My hands are gross, coincide with my arm,
One is insecurity, the other is selfish.
Do you drag? Do you wait?
Why do you stall?
Copyright ©
Beth Dougherty
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