i’m leaving she said, bright eyes suckered by the greener grass of new sides

pulled in by white lies and brighter dyes, the facade of what she hoped would be true

i let her go, knowing that once she traipsed barefoot through the fresh manure coating everything she would come running back

while what i have to give is far from perfection, it is exactly what i said it would be, honest to a fault and unwilling to candy coat the pellets falling from the gaping anus of life

but unbeknownst to her i decided to eradicate all of the grass on my side during her dalliance in the emerald fields of another’s succor

unwilling to take back all the words said in anger and pretend to pretend that pretending is enough, that the world of imagination was not just a bedazzled quilt of frippery and disavowments

that the constant game of playing games was losing it’s luster, the lust losing it’s appeal, the sweaty moments fading into one another until it all became as unsatisfying as everything else eventually does

that my tongue hadn’t grown a callous on it’s tip from all the time spent spelunking her cave of earthly delights, or that her tonsils hadn’t eroded from reciprocation

it was the times between the times between the sheets that had proven us poorly matched, a rhombus that fit into the rectangle but the edges had to be worn down just right

so maybe i did leave the gate open in hopes she would stumble blindly out into the wide open world and when i saw the empty backyard i gleefully shut it again and chained it shut

but it was a mercy killing on something so long into it’s death throes the doctor and gaggle of nurses didn’t bother to conceal their boredom

pulling the plug, euthanizing the patient, like old doctor jack with practiced hands and watery eyes

an angel of mercy, an angel of death, the death of an angel that was a mercy on us both

i’ve killed so many relationships that i have run out of room on the walls for tick marks, become a serial killer of heart’s content

and now i hear a scratching on the back gate, like a branch on a window on a stormy night, or the fetid breath of a corpse sprung back to life, a banshee howl signalling the imminent death of freedom

i blow out the candle and sit huddled on the floor beneath the picture window, scribbling ancient wards in salt around every entry point and orafice

the grass wasn’t greener my sweet, the fertilizer was fresher and now you seek to drag the feces across my freshly mopped floor and call it a homecoming

ain’t no home to return to, just the charred timber of a former life, if i can never go home you most certainly cannot return to this one

it’s an orphanage, a halfway house for the irredeemably lost, a convent for misguided ladies to find god, or scream her name as i perform gymnastics with my tongue under the sheets

this is a layover between flights of fancy, not a final destination, sit patiently and await further instructions by the pilot as he taxis you to a different runway, my lingering runaway

double check the itinerary, it clearly states once you’ve left the continental confines of condemnation there is no tag back, no deposit, no return, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred doweries

there is no future for anyone in the friendly confines of self confinement, just the ghosts of past deficiencies screaming for release

you don’t have to go home but you can’t stray here, i have a priest, a rabbi and an imam on retainer, hilarity resumes when we go to the bar

i was just a sand bar in the river for you to catch your breath upon, not an island paradise for you to sow your seeds of discontent into the fertile soil and take root

a mirage on the highway, a tropical delusion, an optical allusion of the father figure you never knew, the marquis de sad, a sidewalk chalk artist painting escapisms fantasies but the skies are thick with clouds and it will all wash away soon

take your emotional baggage and check out, too many negative reviews and we are undergoing a bit of rebranding, the former image of knight in tarnished boxers so passé in an age of do it yourself eccentricities and fetish fulfillment centers within walking distance

there’s always another fence with greener pastures to dip your toes into, this one is whithered and ill kempt, arthritic hands unable to hold a shovel or hoe the line, back bent from twisting you into the shape of a pretzel and licking the salt from your crooked spine

3 thoughts on “greener

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