Taste

Home was a paint chipped mouth,

all bad wiring, faulty pipes, 

chewing me up and spitting me out. 

Felt a lot like crumbling decay, 
this sweet tooth kind of love. 

Something that calls for more

but always falls short,

always stumbling in the darkness to the bed,

always that other girls name on the tip of your tongue, 

always the saccharine sweet. 

This kind of love, it sits on the tip of my tongue but I can never

quite get the right words out of my mouth quick enough. 

Dodge the way you throw your temper tantrums against the wall quick enough.

Forget the way you smell quick enough.

Call me empty handed, 

tastes a lot like leaving too many messages on an 

answering machine for the new deceased. 

Call me needful,

chews me up just like a broken heart that is always 

trying to figure out which way is north

but can never seem to find the right stars in the sky.

Call me crazy but I never thought I'd be there, 

salivating after roses planted on my ribs with no explanaition

besides a mouthful of anything but the word misogyny.

You like to hit girls 

but only if you make them think they taste 

prettier blushing and crying.

You got so used to being left, you became the leaver.

You took all of the madness filling the base of your skull and painted your lovers with it. 

What a handsome easel, what a haunted house,

what a terrible masterpiece.