The Floor Is Not Only Metaphor

The hunger is over several cuts ago and there’s only dried blood left, shattered glasses in the sink where our matching tea cups used to sit overnight.
But I only learn to swallow and you never learn to stop, too eager to feed the dog and kiss every choke as if love would ever save it from death faster than an emergency call.

Had my teeth knew your hand wasn't another dinner to devour you might still live with a little less bruises, a little more ribs that never run past your own lungs.
But to you I'm only a dog in hunger and you taught me to never apologize for the murder.
You're so good at watering the dead flowers that you forget to bury them and never comeback anymore.

Sure, it feels good to pretend living in a beautiful den as if neither of our mouth ever tried to be a knife.
Just a weightless tongue wishing it was only water and not gasoline to drink this time.
Sure, your mother taught you how to love but never taught how to stop running after the train.
About six times the dog vomit over the carpet and you still come back with another bowl in hand, the reverent feeling of truly matter to someone.

So cheers to another stain of blood and mouthed sorry like a broken record.
Nothing about it means warm anymore, only another floor to clean and suicide letter in a motel bathroom three hours away from home.