You’ve flooded the fridge with food, 
and I want to fling it to the floor, 
flush it down any place but my mouth 
because it’s a vague identifying of 
the bean or veggie before it’s spice 
and no nuance, no taste, unlike 
our cooking you gracelessly slander
but ungratefully gobble down.

You’ve touched all the teacups —
even the one I based my debut poem
on, the one boasting pink blossoms —
and I’m typically the first to knock 
violence, but the rouge of the mug
turned red as a rage burned so,
so brightly, I’m surprised my eyes 
weren’t alight and blistering.

You’ve inspired indifference to ignite: 
congratulations, because I’ve
abandoned rhyme, rhythm, reason 
to write, forgone poetics to force out 
parasites, come up with the perfect 
goodbye (good news: good riddance!),
if only circumstance didn’t forbid 
saying it to your face 
            …but, technically, hypothetically,
            conversationally, I can’t eliminate 
            the possibility of you reading this.