by Poet on the Piano   Jul 28, 2020

I'm always cleaning
leftover dishes - the milk
stained and stale, bits
and pieces of you rotting
at the bottom.

You say you provided
a sturdy roof over our
heads; why then, do I
see skinned carcasses
from the ceilings?

If I leave, you'll say
I'm selfish.
If I stay, I'll eventually
die here,
not by your direct hand
but by the toxins you
calmly fed me.

Was I brought into
this landfill only to
resolve everyone's
messes except my own?


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