pythons in the kitchen

pythons in the kitchen

I leave a fistful of hair on your bed, clean myself up,
and stop to buy ice cream at the CVS on the way home.
Simple pleasures get me through when you won't.

In your bathroom, I shed a pound of skin,
brush it under a rug and slip back before you notice.

I'm disappearing, gradually; it's become a habit.
Layers fly away on the highway, out the window,
along with the strains of gritty garage rock.

In the day, I work alongside architects and engineers,
and by night I deconstruct, pulling myself apart.

I find this funny. You don't.

You notice the missing patches, one day,
and your fingers sting on the raw parts.
You feel an awful lot like a liability.

Indoors, I'm a lobster boiling,
and on the street my car feels attracted to oaks,
wishing to wrap around the strong branches like yellow ribbons.

I'm leaving a snakeskin behind in the living room.
It's hardly a suitable substitute, but you'll manage.

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