Thirty-six.

I.
Then the birds I was painting stopped being birds. They turn into an argument of yellow blurs, the one that has become you exploding in blue light saying over and over, I understand, and the one that's me, flying lower and shouting But there are no words for this!

There are no words.


II.
I didn't want to come back here.


III.
Forget the next part. The rest of it has nothing to do with fucking but sometimes I want to say it because one day it was winter and someone tried to mess up my life. Which I would call unfair if fairness had anything to do with it, but it doesn't, because humans will be humans, which means humans will often be vile and callous and drag mud all over floors that don't belong to them. And then, life will move on. Life always moves on.


IV.
I do not always feel
the need to be a competitive woman.
But let's just say
that you were not the first
to know that his sheets
were the colour
of sangria.


V.
This is really nothing more than a poorly put together poem or prose or pouring pointing out that no matter how many times you say it, we're still on the opposite sides of the fence. Grass versus dirt, white versus eggshell. To put it in more simple terms, I spend more nights alone than not.


VI.
How many times
can you say,
No?