I was walking down the aisle

With a bouquet of yellow roses

When they started to wilt

The closer we got to the altar—

My feet started to tremble

And my knees wobbled.

I was sixteen again

And my insides were made of jelly.

The boy with the broken spirit

Begs me to love him.

And, foolishly, I’ve been an overwatered garden

And love flourishes in the deepest hollows of my being.

I poured him a tall glass of whiskey

As if to sterilize the festering wound consuming his organs,

A black cancer spread

Over the sheets of our marital bed.

I kissed him with gunpowder on my lips

And crafted my words into silver bullets.

I wrote him a fort to keep shelter in

But the bricks were made of sand

And with each thunderous sweep,

I plagued him to another ten years with me.

My crystal ball predicted solitude for miles.

He saw his reflection turn withered and gray

While mine stayed effervescent—

I set him free

To sow his wild oats.

His wings were attached to my strings

For no easy escape.

I smiled with the future gleaming on my teeth,

Stopping him dead in his tracks.

He looked back for just a moment

And broke his neck—

Met the same fate as Lot’s wife.

No pilars of salt

Only a mangled starling on the concrete—

An omen for the inevitable shattering.

Until death comes knocking for what it is owed,

Let the dust stay dust

And settle.