pistol whip

a grudge is your face in a puddle
lookin back at me
better believe
I’ve no ammunition for you

I’ve no bullets for my fucking self
lemme get some space to splash

between my semipermanent silence
and the box you’ve built around
what once was our shared shouting
there’s a pile of molding wax

just because you say it weirdly
doesn’t make it a fucking poem
sometimes it’s just a piece of cilantro
being finally unstuck from your teeth

lemme get that for you

I’ve asked myself how I could know you
if there’s a dance floor I’ve
acknowledged no more than once or twice
but still, scuffs make themselves known

I have no rug to cut for myself
lemme get some wiggle room

I know writhing in punishment
isn’t your type of exercise
but maybe it befits some of us

and I might not be the learnin type
but ”home” has always taught me
there might be a leak in the gutter
a drip from the ceiling
a
dribble
from my mouth
a collection of wet
from wherever wet might come
but from that I might be able to
figure out how to stay dry

I hear you’re trying

but where’s the sweat