Blood Orange

His face is a fistful of oranges. I enter
          an apostrophe where the curve of his nose
should be – a swarm of flies from the blood
pooling in his cupids bow, a hive of bees
stealing glances from his pelvis,

Why are you so honey? I ask him
as if he were ever anything else
despite how much I hate his jeans dragging
on the wet cement, the scent of your pits like
you’ve spent thirty-two un-showered days
in the old folks home down the street
where you’ll inevitably be before I even turn
the age you’re at now             and I gag a little inside

The succulent and the succubus
but even a cucumber salad can’t cleanse you
when you’re a vegetarian who does cocaine
to lose weight
     because
         you want
             to be
                 attractive
                     to me
but I like my men swollen with flesh 
engorged like jelly bean snack time,
you can’t trick me     i know
you pixie stick different candy for your fans
but you aren’t fit and your ass won’t quit
craving french fries in honey mustard
belligerently brave and bloodshot after 
I smacked your face for being a little shit,
a wide open hole of pathetic, handsy determination
begging me to suck the blood from twelve second kisses;

I enter an apostrophe where your breath is warm.

I don’t even know who you are anymore
with your face planted into a pile of oranges
left rotting on the street          both you
                                                      and the oranges

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