I’m Talking to You

Bored is your look today
blanched almond slivers, two drops of blueberry puree
and squeezed suspicion like lemon juice from your eyes
a burning disinterest
inedible

Who pissed in your coffee
to give you that sour mouth?
flatlined, sterilized to 180 degrees of disappointment
the closest thing to a frown
is a straight line, slightly ajar

Maybe you show you care
via the worry-lines wrinkled on your brow
but what work therein is unreadable on your skin
like words on ugly grayscale scans
heather polka-dots that only read out in braille:
fuck you.

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