Wordle #81

Week 81

I keep sugar cookies in a tin

By loaves of gasping letters.

Animal print scabs clutch

At my heart, scurrilous stamps

Ripped from the corners

And taped impersonally

To sheets of college-ruled paper.

A warehouse claws

At the horizon with its filthy eyes

And I think of you blinking

In distress at concessions

That no longer suit our needs.

I hate you, particularly myself

But what is the difference?

The rivets carrying my smile

Have rusted and my lips

Ground into a fermented pulp

No longer conceal the teeth behind them.

Your mouth objects like boards over

An unthinkable and terrible space.

There is nothing to be said or done,

Nothing to be arranged or emptied,