He says he can’t scrub away my dirt. It’s stuck beneath my skin. He says only a fool loves a mess.

I think I’m that line that just won’t rhyme in his perfect poem, so he kicks me from the nest. 

Then you find me and see what others miss. 

You like black streaks on your pillow, red stains around your cock. You taste sweetness inside of me. When we fuck, my irregular rhythm makes sense.

Now the paper clip in my ear holds your words I’ve longed to hear: 

“Beautiful mess, I love you.”

And I finally rhyme, too.