Seven Little Things by Kumiko Mae

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There are seven little things about this house that annoys me
 
One is the pack of Maltesers that you keep
hidden behind ice cube racks
so no one will see
and by no one, you mean me.
Those choco-coated malts roll
down my patience like bad liquor
they remind me of your selfishness and of
my gluttony.
 
Two are the remote controllers
scattered on the floor
tucked in the creases of our rickety sofa set,
lost when needed, otherwise all over the place.
They switch on my memory
of better times when everything
was a button away, we were gods,
until the clouds of your lies fell upon the dreariness of our
every day.
 
Third, is the most personal
I cringe even at the admission.
I am annoyed by your clinginess
wet hair to wet skin
unshakeable
parasite of some sort.
But with the same velocity
I cling on to you. 

Fourth
Stands for the glare
Of the television you wouldn't turn
Off, nor mute down, even as you sleep.
Nightly, I sneak to kill the blinking lights
that seem to tuck your eyelids shut
but nightly I fail
for in your sleep, though you are lost to dreams
your hand shields the TV
and my hands are nothing
against yours.
 
Fifth is partly mine
to apologize for so I won't open the door too wide
out of pride.
Fifth is for the lights
that are never out, an expensive resolve
to have inner peace.
 
Sixth are the broken lids of our jars
thus we are vulnerable
stuck with the spoiled stench of yesterday
faced with a routinely
exposure to a further poisonous well
happening as we speak.

Seventh, and last
of the little things that infuriate
is for the gate that we can never lock
from the outside.
It leaves me dependent of your potency at night
when I miss the last bus.

How it leaves us trapped in our white rooms 
by our own doing.