i. learning to love is

a          l     o     n     e     l     y          t     a     s     k


i am not 
loved like that

"no vacancy" hangs over my chest

"we have no room in this ghosttown for you"

ii. tempted
to trace hot lines of desire
streaking my sheets red
blistering beneath bluejeans

iii. you were made for labor, not for love.
i whisper, 
pulling compression socks over swollen toes.


you were made for labor, not for love.
i hum,
silence nestling herself into my ribcage.


not for love. not for love.
my mouth is empty.
the endless warehouse shelves vibrate from boxes running along the roller tables,
tumbling head-over-bubblewrap into a truck driver's delivery route.


the bowed steel groans crookedly, promising
only for labor. only for labor.


iv. i've dreamed of summer romance.

how fitting i spend my time in a box
taping boxes shut
sending taped boxes into larger boxes
leave in a wheeled box
to come to a box where somebody lives.

my body-box is damaged goods
where is my sell-by stamp?


v.  i cannot learn to love.
i am only fit for labor.

i set the table for three:
my body-box, loneliness, and silence.

i do not make dinner.

best to leave the table unsatiated.


-help wanted, apply within (no vacancies)


original by shedreamer