Erin loses her cool
as if a rock tossed
against a glasshouse
bursting into shards,
intermingling with fine dust
before settling on the floor,
crunching with cracks
beneath her steps,
which satiates the smoke
behind her hazy gaze.
Erin’s clique popped
the lock on my new door.
A bell cam caught
her drying tears
with her lipstick,
smiling into the mirror
like a psychopath.
My clothes wore bleach
and fresh cuts with
scissors resting beside a note.
I cheated with an old friend,
or so the note said.
But two days ago,
I phoned Erin,
telling her I had to give Mary a lift
to her mother’s funeral.
How the weak connection translated
into Mary wanting to give me head
escaped my mind’s eyes
into retracing the call.
She paid the bills
for the shit she burned,
and to this day, we never phone
between different time zones.

Twitter – @AC0040

(© 2023 AC)

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