I’m talking can’t you hear me? Your unresponsiveness is irritating.
I feel like I’m speaking to a vegetable. Like an ear of corn that doesn’t hear.
Like a potato who sits there unfeeling. Like beets whose rhythm I can’t feel.
You’re just space on my couch, a brick in my bed. A ghostly figure;
who walks down my halls.
There is no point in working things out, when no response from you can be
found. Like the spinach that rots in my fridge, you stay in my house; uninvited.
I can’t stand the thought of throwing you out; it grosses me out. But for my health;
I have to. I can’t get sick off your rottenness.
I can’t let you bring me down to your vegetable state of mind.