Monday

Cold sores, cold wars

So old it is being told

“You’re not the one”

But I keep it to myself

The doubts I hide like a pimple

Red and irritated, ready to pop

Now wipe away the pus

Let the blood coagulate 

Let it stain like spaghetti sauce on a stovetop 

I’m covered in cat hair

I’m soaked in lite beer and spit

I’m in an argument with the television 

And she’s not listening to a word I say

The virtual lover, the guilt-free neglect

The shades are drawn, my pen is broken