I don’t fault you for clinging,
splayed low on my shower door.
You’re hung on the scum,
my hair on your tongue—
non-pubic at times, and otherwise.
You drool, eyes up.
Microscopic, your wants.
For the course of a week,
you’ve obsessed on me nude.
You’re fuzz at my feet:
you’re spotty, browned,
segmented like a roach in the ground,
Your sooty antennae squirm in the steam.
My exfoliates feed the pit of your mouth.
I tend not to blame you for being you
or for not being me, in complexity.
Decide though, I could,
to despise your existence
and bleach-force your corpse
down the slime of my drain.