self less

There’s a fist that forms in the creases of his eyelids as he laughs
Reminding me that his joy comes right as he is winding up
and ends upon contact

because after he sees me on the floor
he sees the roaches he has failed to kill
yet again
laying next to me.
This house is dirty,
and he wants better for me.
He works hard
and I thank him for bringing home food that I get to cook.
I even get to eat while sitting across from him
if I still have an appetite.
Sometimes he cleans the dishes
but he usually lets them stack up in the sink.
It gives me something to look forward to
that one day
I will be somewhere else
and the food on the plates will harden
and begin to rot
and dust will collect in the skin around his eyes
and he will feel it when he goes to close them
because they will water
and he will laugh as the fist that used to form there
bleeds into the latrine sink
clogged with what time has left of the mirror.



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