I love You, a Thousand Times.

Leaving your house
after the weekend
always feels a bit
like dying

until it’s done.

I have my routine now.
I hoover the rug
my dog shat on
at our first date
because you always
do the cooking.

I wash the bed linen
because the stains of our
love making
bite the fabric.

I smoke one last cigarette
that you left for me because
you know I suck at quitting.

I write you a poem
and leave it on your bed.
And when there are no words
that rhyme or have rhythm
I simply write

I love you
I love you
I love you

a thousand times.

Small Town Dying

on monday
we are hungover from
that weekend
when we lived

on tuesday
we wash our car
because god forbid
the car next door
shines harder

on wednesday
we mow the lawn
and throw the apples
back over the hedge

on thursday we pay
our taxes and fuck our wives
because this needs to happen
once a month

on friday we eat fish
and i think jesus
had something to do
with that

on
saturday
we die

Violated

he looks like
an army vet
like in one of those
american movies
we watched

pilot glasses
porn moustache
trucker cap

he rides a mobility
scooter
and his wife rides one
too
while his granddaughter
bounces up and down
a makeshift trolley

i wear a sleeveless shirt
and he looks at me
with that disgusting man face
some of them make
while his wife complains
about the weather

Summer in Autumn

it is summer
in autumn
because climate change
is only a hoax
when you are
a millionaire
and your head
has been crushed
by the paper
you made
underpaying
the women
that sew

for the rest of us
it’s wildfires
and tsunamis
while
you set
a nature reserve
on fire
to reveal the genitals
of your baby
like gender
is still a thing
worth celebrating
instead of
a bunch of cells
sticking together
in a womb

i take of my shirt
and look at the brown
leaves on the curb
wondering when
we all die
in mother nature’s
final attempt
to salvage the planet

Churri

you look at me
and i look at the lines
next to your eyes
as the sun
goes down
behind tall buildings
and sleepy homes
tonight

deep purple oranges
blue and black rays
mixed
with hungry
street lights

the church bell tolls
a cigarette burns
next to
a half emptied
bottle of wine

you hover over me
with that look
on your face

and in that moment
i realise

there is
nowhere
left
to hide

Ametisto

the stone
in his hand
is pure
purple
magic

he tells me stories
of its birthplace
spanish flowers
in the mountains
women dancing
in folk dress

and i can feel
something
growing
as the purple
rests on
my chest
for the first time

because a necklace
is never just a necklace
but a whisper
of a promise
planted softly
on bare skin


This poem was written about a piece of jewelery created by Joyeria Ramos.