Situationship

I have a lover and her name is black mould,
scourge of all houses in temperate regions.
She reclines in my bathtub, scrapes one finger
across the soft white line of sealant binding
porcelain to the wall, smirking as she does.

I have a lover and her name is black mould,
accomplice of negligent landlords.
She clings to my airway, croons in my ear
that I should shut off the heating, close
the windows, let the glass grow damp.

I have a lover and her name is black mould,
killer of babies and bearer of spores.
I ask her to leave and she grins in response,
asks me to paint over her, tells me to move house,
says that I am the only one keeping her here.