Nobody?

Seriously... nobody?

The bush moves
in little hops
like a Scooby Doo
cartoon
and you laugh
and flash me
your dick
from the window

I drop my
binoculars and
consider rubbing
one off
on their conical lenses

but you yell for me to
get off your fucking lawn
and to not fuck
with the garbage can again

something about bears
and being ridiculous

Meh.

I shake my jar of
your toenail clippings
and sniff
the crotch of the pants
you left by the side of the bed,
and cartoon hop
my bush
closer

I’m a little
demonstrative
when my lover
makes me
mentally ill

Like, I considered
peeling your
sclera off and
pasting it in mine
so I can see
what you see

and I’d sew you
in my chest
to keep you closer

But that shit
according to you
is
wrong
and illegal
and weird

You said nobody
has been
obsessed
with you
before this

And I wanted to give you
the full experience

You stomp over to the bush
and ask if this is really what
I’m doing
standing close enough
I can cop a feel
on your ankle
and cackle

Because, yeah.
This is what I’m doing now.

The real shit isn’t as forthright
as stalking you in a bush.
It’s obsession.
Obsession.

The you-loop of
every fucking moment
circling my mind like
vultures on a trade wind

and at the height of my
irrational need
I’m pissed that bitches 
never stole your pants
or made feral eye contact
every 12 minutes
around the clock

and I hate the world
for sleeping in
on your toenails

and I’m furious 
that you could be 
anything, ever

but mine. 

Because you,
love, you
are worth the
mental stakeouts
and amount of dirt
those things track in the house

You said in your 
sexy voice that 
I’m not getting
my pussy eaten
if I don’t take a fucking shower 
and stop sniffing your pants

(but they smell like …)
    (you) 
       (us)
        (last night)

I make it to the shower
and pull you in
fully clothed
because it’s been
minutes since
you’ve touched me

and you said
no one’s been
obsessed
with you

before


this.