my liver to the dogs

sunday night, when i was meant to be socializing, i slaughtered keys instead.
good girls would get the sliced cheese out of the fridge before five, and
good girls would have set the table when i asked you the first time, and
good girls do not have sweaty passionate sex on the kitchen counter.

now, do we remember which fork is for the desert?
why dont we show grandma how we use our words and not our fists?
our inside shoes go in the red box remember? I dont want to see you half naked on the front porch again,
dried puke on your chest and piss down your leg.
good girls would have not forgotten to pick up the eggs, thats what the car is for.

not until i was knuckle deep in ivory did i notice your hand on my shoulder,
you said "whose funeral is it!"
it was mine.
it was fucking
mine was was
was mine
fuck