.
When you leave me, sigh.
Something that tells me your departure’s nigh.
Please don’t just slip off the dock with no cough
or “Ahem,”
like the rest o’ them.
Maybe shake my hand.
Not cool to be femme
fatale, heart not more than a lapel gem
you leave as your stamp that dissolves to sand
from a globe
allodoxaphobe.
Therapy’s a bitch,
my own thumb the probe
for Lil’Jack Horner in nought but bathrobe
and nine holes to stitch. Hey! Dust off your kitsch
collection
of bedbug erections.
Make room for one more
trophy rejection.
When his dick will leave his hot infection
in your weepy cunt. You can smoke your blunt,
but still hurts…
The fucking ass squirts
that can’t say goodbye.