“I told you so.”
She talks fast.
Her tits touch the table.
I’m half a bottle
hungover,
rotting on the inside,
and she thinks it’s time
for a heart to heart.
Smoke from her cigarette
makes a cross mid-air.
She’s ready to hang me,
last night’s laundry,
in the stabbing sunlight.
“I have a headache.”
My hands act as blinds.
“And I don’t wanna fight.”
But begging on my knees
can’t make this one right.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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