The Girl Next Door by Rachelle Street

I want to know who invented poetry.
So I can grab them and hold their wrists
under warm water, watch the tub turn pink and laugh.
My heart does not need lessons in all the
various ways it can break.

I keep carefully scribbled notes in the margins
of my cookbooks. Add more flour. Omit
brown sugar. Use less cayenne. I am always
making things too spicy for fear they’ll end up bland.
My forehead is covered with bruises from me
banging my head against the kitchen wall.
Chanting, “What good is a woman who can’t cook?”

My last boyfriend told me not to be so accommodating.
I stopped being the girl next door a long time ago
and no matter how sweet I am she’ll never come back.
In spite of everything I can still come during sex.
It is a small victory to which my sanity clings.
It is a life preserver.