You sleep
black and red
on the devils bed.
You’re spiteful and cute,
because someone cut your horns off.

Your inconsistency files at my nerves;
my hair is growing a million miles an hour
and my ends are splitting at the same pace.

My knuckles scream to be cracked and my feet shake
pitter pat on the tile floor, far-away in southern france
and you don’t know what to say.

I tip my chair forward and back
forward, back;
carefully tracking the time you take to respond, or not.

We could both use some clarity.
I was confused by the dirty, direct lies you let slip
and slither into my hand while you held it;
you never thought I was beautiful.

I don’t want to complicate things,
but I don’t hate you.
And perhaps I’ll keep you forever
in my growing, glamorous collection of regrets.