Published December 5, 2014 by April Fox

Early morning, waking alone
in the cluttered nest you built
the stench of last year’s sheets and last night’s
desperation turn your stomach and the water
on the bedside stand is gone, the glass left empty
by the stranger who crept over you
shameful in your flaccid state
saliva like a spider’s web, linking you
to the soggy condom
by the pillow

There is a book you thought you’d want to read
lying on the floor
dressed in dust and the fragile carcass
of an insect
starved for air

The sunlight through the broken blinds sings lies
of better things

You dreamed of childish things,
rope swings and secret hidden cans
of cheap domestic beer, Fantasia
on the TV screen

When they found you, you were hanging
like some morbid decoration
strung up in celebration
of the world you left behind
and the skin dripped off their faces
open mouths and burnt out eyes, imaginary
indignation, all
erased with your existence.

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