Purist

Bone-marrow Sunday,

He strikes me with a
good-morning kiss

as the static electricity
swarms the blaring television set
in the next room over

when I've got the guts
I take my complaints
and rant to a countertop
in hopes to see the granite surface
twitch or twist
in agreement

and then I escape the place
only to waver at a bus station
as an unseen woman calls me a liar
and a bitch
her words searing my ears
flooding from her coral lips
straight into my head

I was born and made
to die dead
to slumber peacefully into the infinity

and even though I don't drink,
I drowned myself in bowls of red wine
because the alcohol glaze
clouded over my vision
as two wizened broomsticks
beat me back to life.