I blame you

The last kisses permeate the carpet threads.
A container of letters belonging to boxes under your bed.
Like a basin of doubt you wash over logic.


Maybe it’s not your fault


that the graze on your kneecap blinds.
Maybe it’s not the stubbing of the toe that leaves the stains on the tiles.

Maybe it’s not your fault you are hindered by my stare.
We take the harvest of curses and
store them and store them amongst the cutlery and underwear.


But I blame you. I blame you that your back is colder than a fort.
I blame you that the arch of your spine is not a jigsaw match to my breasts.