Seconds
We share leftover spaghetti on the floor.
I spill sauce on my tights
and beer on your rug.
I apologize
but you shoo it away—
the whole night is an apology
for the body,
the fugue of self-hatred
descending, the marriage
of you and me and her.
She hangs heavy in the air
between us,
and me between you and her,
a placeholder for what is missing
in your life.
I do not mind my disposable status.
I am used to seconds.
