To My Wooden Desk, with Love

When I should be focusing on writing brilliant poetry I sit
and obsess over the painting in your corner. How blue
bleeds into orange and splatters on itself – a metaphor
for our beautiful mess life. I wonder sometimes if you’d cuss
me out while walking out the door of our crappy apartment
to go talk shit about me with other home fixtures. Would you
tell everyone I’m a fraud with no talent – expose me as
a lifeless life hack? O scratchy dusty desk, I owe you
my soul and dignity; for the papers of secrets sprawled
atop your sturdy frame and the compulsive scratches
in your circular middle folding into a navel. I should have gotten us
a bookshelf after my book count surpassed 10; I should have clothed
you with cheesy artsy decorations to stop the painful
ruining of your streaks. I should have flipped your face down
while propping your prickly legs in the air, and picked you up
with all my strength, sweat dripping into my mouth, 
to finally move you to the kitchen – a much better suited space,
but I didn’t, and for that, I’m sorry. Sorry that I’m such a terrible
human to you, sorry I spend more time with you during
the summer, sorry that even though I’m sorry, I’ll move on
to another wooden desk that’ll be forced to withstand
my abuse of its fruitfulness and forget the things I’ve
apologized for while you age in your lonely.

 
Eileen Wu