She sleeps a turmoil in a tangle of sheets, respite from a 60-hour kitchen week; beside her I lie and I cannot blink, let alone sleep. I twisted the bed sheets and swallowed the knots and there they sit deep in the pit of my rotting gut. I have rolled through the muck and masturbated with the grease, leaving stains all over the bedsheets, black tar adulterations ‘cross the pillowcases. I breathe the smell of vomit. I wallow in the self-induced sickness burrowed in mid-day blankets on the couch. The method is to contribute, to share the load, to make yourself by what makes the love you share love that works. And there is the duty I’ve spared myself of – this, the black pit in my stomach, gut rot, disease, the responsibility I promised yet laid down with the cake smeared the cum on my face in mid-afternoons dry with dust: why not? several hours till she’s home from work, lay myself down with the cake instead of her, her whom I love yet forever let down.