Don’t you fucking look at me like I’m speaking in tongues
when I am using words to describe you that you don’t like.
We stand in my kitchen, shoulders squared off.
You won’t meet my eyes;
and I could claw your face off but I bit my nails down
so I’m reduced to words. Cheap, cheating, liar.
Standing in my kitchen like your body has a right to the space.
Like somehow this house is yours, this whole city is yours, from the lake
to the Motel 6 in Brecksville where you took her.
I know you fucked her.
I know you fucked her.
I like that you had to drive that far south to feel safe.

Elaine Schleiffer is a writer and poet living in Cleveland, OH. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming in Stylus, Ultraviolet’s Purple Poetry Journal, and Pudding Magazine.

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