Mon, 05/30/2016 - 21:01 -- macfmck

You stepped out of love with me, baby

as I tumbled out of love with myself, baby

as you tried to claw the pills from my shaky


hand. I was shoving capsules down my throat

then my mother forced fingers down my throat

and I vomited every word you ever spoke,


convinced in the end, love is all you have.

I thought I had you. Now ten fingers is all I have

but I will chop off three and cut them in half


to serve as hors d'oeuvres for our funeral in silver

trays while our friends eat bites of my ring finger, silver

band still intact with a skewer in each piece like slivers.


The snacks are donned with an olive garnish

as blood red sauce drips from my fingers like polish.

This poem is about: 


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