Chicanery and Ivory

Your twisted words lay

at the crossroads, like my

socks tangled under

the bed covers after they slip

off my feet.

When I try to put them on,

they constrict my

thoughts,

make me feel

sick – sweaty

with the stench

of your dis-ease.

Try wringing them out,

wash your mouth

out with soap, like my

mom used to do when I

got caught in a lie.