Loss of Restraint

I’m not sure how you keep getting back into my apartment. While I make dinner, when I watch the Daily Show–you’re there. Flittering about as if you pay the rent. I knew enough was enough when you started inviting your friends, two-three at a time, making yourselves comfortable on my walls and cupboards. The blue plastic ruler reserved for guiding straight lines on the limbs of drawn robot dogs became an instrument of death. Pulling back its head and letting it snap forward like a violent cowlick. At first I’d clean up the scattered limbs and innards but after you and your cronies’ persistence I decided to let the viscera sit and crust. A warning to all of you not to fuck with me, because I may sit on the computer for hours at a time but help me god if I won’t occasionally get up to smoosh one of your moth asses.