the sheets

i didn’t wash the sheets after u left

i liked how they reeked; sour

washing them felt too final

let me smell u, us, badly

the sheets are black so the cum is bright, white

loud and obnoxious like faking an orgasm

hard to miss like one, too

it breaks then crumbles when i pick it

so i just hang the sheets above my bed

let the white stains remain, maybe turn gray

a tapestry of our love and disarray

the last reminder that it was real

my spit is thick like sneeze juice

i make a puddle in my hand and use wet fingers

to stick the flags up on my wall

step back and see Monet-like strokes

the new headboard excites me

i take the leftover saliva, put it between my legs

stand until i’m shaking and cold

and for the first time i notice blood

i wipe my hand on the banner, lay on the mattress

recall how u kissed my forehead like my last ex

who only broke up with me for new sex

but we died because of me this time

most filth is dark but ours is white

if we were cursed how could it be this light

i wonder if this is a sign because

the smears look like constellations

i can’t remember the afternoon, now it’s ten

the rain outside turned to snow

and the sheets fell down, all of them

my security blankets returned

finally, the sheets makes sense to me

white isn’t the absence of color; it is every color

and u are a vibrant, translucent rainbow

don’t get me started on ur pillow