Stop rolling my words in your mouth like marbles and
masticating over morals and mantras that I never said
but you intuited and then spat back at me like lemon
curds and lime drops that I don't even like, a citric
phobic with a claustrophobic nature yet you still
insist we meet in the mop closet. What kind of person
minds what the neighbours think as if they could hear
through walls and see the bullet casings and pistachio
shells of spent arguments rolling around on the floor
between the boards that they can supposedly smell
through? I never said that the walls were thin and
that I could feel the latent rub of sweaty palms
before we begin our out-of-bounds love ritual at noon
or midnight, that was you who thought I was insane,
but here, I have proof, you are the one to blame, you
cupboard-loving-acidic-fruit-biting-nut-hording-in-patient.
I'm not giving you any more words for your tea, I'm
not giving you anything or any part of me, just you be
quiet and I'll let you be you and me be me, it's not
me that's mad, you are just so aggravatingly,
captivatingly, crazy.


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