Rehabs

The doors creak out stories of
every minute I've spent

racing the thoughts in my head

& every time you've smoothed away
my surgery scars
to a fresh finish

like the drywall
you've spent the past
eighteen months

perfecting.

Each time I skulk around the
cob-web tapestries
in the hallways
I can feel all the bar nights
when you held my head
over the side of the freeway—

my lipstick smeared across
both our cheeks

& our shapes highlighted
like deformed saints

by lunar carelessness.

Now I've hidden them
under the rugs
with the black widow corpses
& overtired dreams—

they can keep their diction
to themselves & the shadow-black.

We don't need it now—

you're molding the house
to hold the spiritual currency
we've evolved into—

learning to purr at love
instead of hissing & playing

spitting games.