The Ribcage Petitions To Become A Roving Exhibit At The Museum Of Failed Relationships
The prince leaves his princess for a maid
in another castle. The boy changes his mind
after he sees his love play dead, makes
new lovers wear the skin of balconies.
The former queen wishes her former king
an interesting life, tries on the poison dress
and crown until her kiss can kill. The woman
burns cars not like bridges, but to guide
the right man into her arms. Trash cans
grow fat on memory, fall in love
with the lover fleeing the scene.
The Ribcage Fails To Invent A New Metaphor For Fucking
Your latest lover asks you to talk dirty
even after you say you prefer showing
over telling. He wilts beneath the sheets,
peels the covers away from the both of you.
You try to caress the cold shower out of him,
your tips needling starvation into his skin.
Go home, he says. Call me when
your vocabulary improves.
The Ribcage Taints A Wedding By Being Itself
You ask around who out of the wedding party
is the easiest, which ones would consider
waking up next to you with enough drinks
from the cash bar. The plague of your desire
spreads from wedding guest to wedding guest,
the alcohol not enough to cure them of judging
your wants. This former lover invited you|
so he could treat forever like a victory lap
and you couldn’t resist the opportunity
to spoil his pace, sour the honeymoon
before it even starts.