Dry Clean Only

i can’t force

or fake

my dispositions

but if i could

i would

and do

my best

to be

the best

for you

i’d be kind

and and soft

like a kitty cat

quiet and silent

like a sewer rat

white and fluffy

like a unicorn

fresh and pink

like a newborn

urgh, but no

i’m not those things—

i’m a bull in a boxing ring

a squawking bird that sings

at the crack of dawn

i’m a yawn

in your meeting

i’m plastic seating

i’m an awkward greeting

in broken french

i’m the barbed wire on this fence

i’m unnecessary defence

it don’t make sense;

i don’t make sense

so clustered and flustered

when i’m in love with you

i’m just

mustard stained on your

favourite suit

i’m the dining room

that never gets used

i’m the consonants

in a blunt “fuck you”

harsh and crude

dirty and screwed

a rolled up ball

of cheap perfume

and the worst part is:

i’m a bad poet, too