Man Who Lives in the Mess

He calls himself a perfectionist

but his house tells another story—

clutter stacked in corners,

an odor choking the air,

address sign dangling like a half-finished promise,

a faucet that doesn’t flow,

dog hair blanketing everything.

He speaks of standards

but not the kind that keeps love standing.

He makes a meal effortlessly

but can’t clear a space for me.

He opens his bed—

welcoms my skin, my flesh,

but not my heart.

In the morning, he strips the sheets

scrubs out my scent as if I were a stain.

Perfection is a word he says to sound put together

to hide the chaos he won’t face.

And that’s who I loved—

the version he wants to be.

Not him.

Not the man in the mess.