Invaded

is lonely in a look?

In a Sunday afternoon

Lingering waiting for your returned envelope

Stamped and ready to open

Yet my steps toward the mailbox is stifling

A broken mailbox, a cut phone line

Like my endless walk to the coffee machine, that word stuck in my throat like bad peanut butter as each syllable runs through my heart beat,

Lon-li-ness, each step is in my downcast eyes. Down.

To make my own solitary cup I drink alone though I made two

Yes, loneliness is longing in a look

At a rose colored park

When your spine is crushing against your back

And your sighs feel like death

Why must I have my solidarity and my quiet moments stuck next to pitch-ether choking air,

He wants me to stay

But not for us

For his own thwarted loneliness.

As Jennifer from The L Word said,

"Oh, fuck off, Mark. It's not my job to make you a better man, and I don't give a shit if I've made you a better man. It's not a fucking woman's job to be consumed and invaded and spat out so that some fucking man can evolve."

I spat out the bad peanut butter, all over your white sheets,

Drowning like the syrup you poured over my face and my hair, a messy finger paint you can’t pay for

Cloaked by you, you made me feel like invasion is a price to pay for survival.