After 21 years, he still p*sses me off.
His mouth still runs,
Like the ticking of a clock.
His stubborn persistence,
Like a hit radio song: unending.
Why won’t he let me sleep?
I don’t want to know why
The sky is blue or how many
Leaves are on my oak tree – 562 and counting.
To him, I am paper,
Creased like an airplane.
Thrown, crashed,
Promptly in the trash.