How to Choke Myself in the Ugly Kitchen


When I stumbled on the kitchen floor,

I actually believed in a counterclockwise wonderland—


colorful macaroons and a mouthful of sherbet. Dried

skin flaked in my long hair. It covered

my lineless back. I saw some moles.


Then he called me, Sweetie


without kissing my forehead.


Once he drilled a hole and hung a phone from the 1970s,

and painted the wall in a puke yellow.


I shoveled a spoonful of instant coffee into my mouth.


There is


an extra season of endless fields . . .

The postcard fell from the refrigerator.


Sweetie, he called me from behind a leather couch.


The TV remote is lonely on the carpet.


I wiped my hands with a paper towel and said, I am here.

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