by Brittany Leitner
I think I cursed my own bed
By buying “She, She” pillows
Instead of “His, Hers.”
I didn’t want my bed to think
It needed a man
They’re only good for one thing
He’s no use to me in the morning:
Comments that my light fixture
Falls from the ceiling
Into a bowl shape — like a tit
And asks me why I need the AC to sleep.
I feel his arm barely around me
I look at the great breast in the sky
"It’s New York," I say.