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