by Dee Mac
I worked ‘till midnight and when we
broke up, all I thought of was my aching
feet. I called you an asshole and what I meant
was why did you wear my favorite shirt
and those torn cut-offs that make your ass
look like something I’d like to sink my
teeth into. I held back my tongue so I
couldn’t shove it down your throat but
no, I don’t want to be your friend and
no, I don’t want to watch the X-Files with
you anymore. Yes, I will miss your dog
and yes, I want you to throw away my
toothbrush, my hairbrush, my lilac
shampoo, my coffee-stained mug, my
wine (don’t you dare drink that fucking wine).
No, I don’t want you to walk me to the “L.”
Tonight, I hope you smell that lilac shampoo
on your pillow and stare at that Polaroid of my
drunken face on your wall and read my poem about
kissing you until you wet your cum-stained sheets with
tears. When you’re hungry, I hope you mistake that
emptiness for missing me. I hope you think
of me when you pass train tracks, when you
walk by the shore of Lake Michigan, when you
play fetch with my socks that your dog loves.
And trust me: your bed will feel a thousand
times too big without me in it. The Mountain
Goats will never sound the same. Blowjobs
will never feel as good. And I’ve got a feeling
tomorrow when you wake up you’ll use my toothbrush
and remember the taste—
the intimacy of our teeth.