My Ex At the Kitchen Table

You still have jet-black hair gelled back.
We argued yesterday,
Do you still forgive me?

You kiss me on my forehead over the kitchen table,
You read your texts, your thumb squashing the keys quickly.
Am I those texts?

My ex is at the kitchen table,
Stirring his coffee, his white t-shirt clinging to his body,
Have you been working out?

He smiles, eyes full of poison.
But the dreams glide on that bronze skin, you have to be God,
The man knows he’ll destroy me.

He says he’s never smoked a cigarette,
But there’s a glass ashtray at the bottom of his bed on the floor,
And he plays video games with an addiction.

If I were fruit, I would rot on his tongue,
If I were meat, I would be salted by his teeth,
If I were any of these things, as my heart is,

He’d cover it in the bitterness of his tears,
Which never fall,
And I would never reach to his dark heart,

Only to the black sewers of his throat,
I would be half-eaten, half-loved, half-wanted,
My ex at the kitchen table rolls his dinars, fingers to thumbs.

With a smile full of rain,
His eyes black, because he has not quite finished making the stars in his eyes yet,
Decorating the universe is an art form of God’s, they say,

I have to remember the pull of my ex is as delicious as being pushed away from him.

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