Gaps

You're a walking cliché,
that smells like floral dryer sheets,
and an emergency room,

and you always turn a doorknob,
with angry rushed fingers,

and I watch closely.

 

It feels as if the only words,
you know the definition of,
are your versions of 'love' and 'pain',

which are really,
not love or pain at all,
because you force them,
between the gaps,
of your clenched teeth.

 

You don't go anywhere,
except to your pity parties,
where there is only one attendee.