to be a house

I don’t want this to begin

feeling less like love

and more like convenience.

can we leave this fucking apartment, please?

“oh, to be respected like a house.”

you leave your shoes on when you come over,

your mud is now my mud.

shower before you leave as to not smuggle my hair in your beard

so that she does not find it as she plucks out crumbs

lovingly in a restaurant

where we cannot go.

you are so careful upon the return.

remind me

of how small I am,

I am wet with knowing

how many of me can fit inside of you

I am ten of your hands

you are three years of me.

I kiss beneath your armpit,

behind your ear,

the pocket of your thumb,

the places she will not find because she does not care to kiss you here,

don’t you love me for doing this?

aren’t I kind and caring and isn’t this better?

but each time I sit on your mouth

and you drag your face through me completely

I pray to god,

who surely doesn’t know my name,

that you will not be able to wash me fully from your eyebrow

or that my scent sticks maybe behind your tonsil as you swallow,

and she will smell me on your breath

when you let her kiss you goodnight

before you two drift into sleep,

something we cannot do

because we only sleep by accident

in the back of your truck

after you lose your fist in me

after my body swallows you to the wrist

and you wake in a panic,

rushing home to your other limbs.