You leave a bad taste,
it won't come clean no matter
how hard
I scrub. And it makes
me want to scream, how long,
how much I trusted
and put stock in things
you said, our private dis-
course, our messy bedsheets,
our concrete haven under the highway,
and I'm lost, now; broken beyond repair,
settling in shadows, in shame,
until the morning comes to claim me from my death.