It leaves a bad taste in my mouth
like when I drink orange juice after I brush my teeth. 

It’s my car that won’t start.
Candle wax that won’t come out of the carpet,
or a crinkly bag my cat hates.
I never could fall in love,
a stroke of luck that isn’t in my genes.
Nor do I think it fair for someone to be on the other end. 

My mother fell in love with everyone, especially herself.
We have commitment issues.
Ask any ex.
Having love was attractive like a bad STD.   

Hand in hand, quiet dinners and waking up together
weren’t my ideas of a great night.
Sheets thrown around after great sex wasn’t my ideal either.
I’d rather make love to Lorca or Angelou. 

Watching sunsets with someone isn’t romantic,
just better when I’m inhibited or drunk.
I hate eyes that call my name.
Mouths that whisper sweet nothings.
Embraces that make me hold on to forever.
I just throw them away like newspaper. 
All truly not my gig, just torment.
A sky full of dark clouds.
Not a sunrise,
just bad karma and entrapment.  

This isn’t what utopia looks like.
Love destroys my glamour, my edge.
I prefer gluttony and exaggeration.
Light disappears as Billie
disappears amid the smoke.
Taking with her all the marvels and wretchedness of love.  

Scott McCarthy is a teacher and writer who lives in Pittsburgh with his cat, Armando. He is an MA graduate of Slippery Rock Unversity's writing program.