On the floor near the doorway lay
Those green polka dot socks that I hate.
They mock me, telling me he’s been here,
When the crisp coolness of my sheets tell me otherwise.
Every night is the same it seems
When the bottle is brought out and
Shot after shot slips down his expert throat.
My hair hangs heavy with preparation
My razor smoothed legs propped up on the chair
As I radiate need that no fancy salmon dinner can satiate.
We, like scavengers, feed on scraps to our fill
But I have tired of the lack of fresh sustenance.
Shirt and sheets will not stay crisp or cool tonight,
And our salmon dinner spoils on the table.