THE  27Th  EDITIOn

& I hate the butter dish sitting on top of our microwave

seeping soft yellow over its edges on humid

days when the purple kitchen paint wants to peel like me

stripping off my cherry scented clothes because the fans never

make the air cool enough but I bet the butter likes to melt 

and maybe that's why I hate it so much—I told myself

for years I would never thaw, fitting right in with the five

cheese ravioli, quinoa bowls, chicken tenders,

and frozen daiquiris finding solace in cramped freezer

space has been the best option until you opened the door

telling me you can soften again I hum in the tension

between our thighs and wrists on the couch wondering how

you could break what I had locked again and again and again

so easily I crave the galaxy whirring between us seducing 

our fingertips to touch but these lilac walls are watching

me melt when I had yelled at them to never let me again

let someone else in and make a toast.