I am the court jester,

Bleeding laughter—calcified eschar

Of despair. I grew weary dancing over the king’s hot coals

And listening to his woes:

Oh, the Queen

Used her teeth

To skin his manhood while it was still pulsating,

Fresh from the slaughter—as we were saving

The best for last.

He’s more sugar than he is cream;

Corrosion blacker than his morning coffee.

She runs herself a bath,

Lights candles to tune out the static.

I fill the throne’s void

With a shrill lyric to my voice

And the king takes me as his bride.

No one’s teeth are sharper than mine.