christie in january, By Aynsley Rae
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christie in january, By Aynsley Rae

christie in january, By Aynsley Rae

an apple is the doorstop.

in lieu of a working lock

it is an invitation,

a trail of pawprints

from stoop to kitchen to hallway

and back again


does it count as smoking inside?

if we pour our lungs to the front porch

and the smoke trails slither

between the chipped green paint,

green skin

to stain the walls second-hand


does it count as fucking?

if we twist the knob till it burns

and lick off each other’s flesh

under the eye of the windowsill,

a misstep in the architecture

we try to cover the dead spots, the mildew

with dead leaves, spit-soaked steam

a contradiction in bare chests,

loose fibers in the metal catch


does the cat count as ours?

if the annex is a lonely place to be

and we grew sick of slamming shoulders

into bruises for strays


in the small kitchen there’s gin

and key bumps, before bambi’s,

under the rounded archway

where I took your photo

and forgot to curl the corners in red,

your roommate coated the wall white

and we washed our sheets


we can’t live in our own stains, but

the blood feels like home