it’s midnight.
i’m with you
in a ball
on a quarter of my side.

you’re taking up a quarter of
my half of the bed with your engulfing
speculation and a partially harbored
rage marking pages you skimmed
to later find your place where you felt,
at the time,
some things are better left theorized
than openly enslaved.

I’m investigating an inner stillness
that dissolves when exposed
  and counting
                               to ten, my sponsor said
contusions around my throat.
you’re learning about economics
this week:
hyperbole & statistics;
which way my freckles move
depending on my
the likelihood of a temper tantrum over soap scum
on anything I scrubbed,
unloved refrigerator pictures circa 1991,
premature forgiveness when I’ve still got to
fuck the bitter out but
someone gave me two weeks of yoga passes
so I’m suppressing it in down dog and polite nods
on a borrowed mat
on the other side
of town.
I’m crooked but
I’m hiding my scoliosis 
in poses.

the amount of times my palms moved from open to
across your cheek and at what velocity,
how much of my useless back will face you tonight,
how long before one half of the bookshelf is strewn about
the floor,
how long before it’s all cleared out.
                    you’re a poor investment, Sarah
simply put,
how not to trust
anything that has to do with
(count the marks on my throat)

you already know
about sharpness.
my Christmas tree is in a dumpster
in another state and most other things
shouldn’t be brought here or
shouldn’t be touched.
I’m in child’s pose
hiding in the closet
and tonight
you are learning

to never bet on
that talks.

“the economist”

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