Just then, I realized my pet peeve about women — they don’t tell me beforehand that their husbands are coming home soon.
In my porch, underneath the light bulbs my lover insists on, I catch white moths in my hands and set them free. I’m next.
Her smiling face beamed at him, imploring him with vibes of love. Unmoved, he gave her the silent treatment. The phone stayed in his pocket.
He gave me pink juice, so I spiked it. He called me fragile, so I broke his toe. He wrote me into a book, so I kissed him before I shot him.
Tearful, she huddled on the center stair. Half-way up? Half-way down? For the first time, it was her choice alone which way to go.
When I eat clementines I see that time in your bed when you fed me by hand, slowly. To think I broke it off with you through text message.