She comes home
and does what she wants.
Does what? We don’t know.
She wont say.
But it’s not much,
because she’s cut off and closed away.
Far and in-between the what-if
of her.
She is a melancholy angry mess
I can’t put my thumb on her
and she’d break it if I tried.
But I do, because I can, and she lets me pry;
however reluctantly,
because that’s all I have ever done.
I speak the truth, because lies are boring vicious things.
Even though the truth is often painful
as a motherfucker,
it’s freeing,
casual and a sweetness
rolled into a ball and
swallowed down
that speaks to my
appetite.
Which always
hungers.
By Philip Wardlow 2016