Being in your perfect house
I am acutely aware of my own
imperfection.
One can never fully relax
on a tightwire of
Have I hung the bathroom towel correctly?
Did I remember to put the toilet seat down?
Don’t forget to wipe the water ring from beneath the glass I set
upon the kitchen counter.
I suspect, when I leave today,
you will sanitize the bathroom I used.
You will fluff the pillows I rested on,
vacuum the carpet I walked across leaving symmetrical vertical lines.
You have already asked me to remove any food I placed in the refrigerator
For us.
You will,
I believe,
eradicate any evidence I existed here.
Tell me if I am wrong.
I don’t think you will.
You will not remember fondly
how I can’t seem to figure out your technology
or shut the refrigerator door correctly.
You will not remember
endearingly
my yawns that sound like orgasms.
Will you even remember the surrender of my climax?
You don’t see the orange and elderberry juice I purchased as an act of care,
but as an invasion.
Instead,
you will want to reclaim all your space
all to yourself
the moment I leave.
Tell me if I am wrong.
I don’t think you will.
You did your best,
I know,
to welcome me.
But, the only way to take up residence here
is to make myself smaller –
to eradicate the evidence of the fullness of me.
Tell me if I am wrong.
I don’t think you can.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2020