Blame It On The Mattress
I don’t like to go to bed, even though sleeping is my favorite pass time.
My partner feels like a corpse, lying next to me,
Cold and unwanted.
It smells bad too, this bed.
The mattress is like a urine soaked sponge, countless bodies have soiled it with semen, maybe period stains.
Children too, little devils with adult size bladders.
And here we lay, like I really love you or something.
I would like to take a kitchen knife and chop you while you sleep –
and slice into the mattress; gash up the remnants of forgotten pleasure.
I want to make a bloody mess of your life, and after,
maybe make extensions out of your hair.