the door
i hear whispers in the kitchen.
the toaster
is talking
to the microwave.
it's a group discussion with
the blender
and the coffee machine.
they are talking
about me.
i lean in so that they
can't see me
and listen.
i'm tired, i hear the frying
pan say,
look at me,
all scratched and burned,
and then the disposal
chimes in,
and what about me,
he put an apple core
down my throat
just yesterday, and the day
before that
poured in a cup full of Drano.
i can't live like
this anymore.
i'm still shaking from all
the popcorn
he keeps making,
says the popcorn machine.
and then
the fridge
speaks up, have you people
ever seen what
goes on in here.
i'm a science project
with rotting fruit and vegetables.
i have a dozen
salad dressings weighing
down my shelves.
it's cold in here and the light
goes out when
he closes
the door.
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