You called to tell me “The money’s good—I’m ready to be married!” but we had already wed years ago.
I am disgusting. Raised to be a bride, to hate myself for it, I come to you full of brides.
There is no room in my heart for important men who surround themselves with flowers. Take the garland of wives and daughters from around your neck. That you feel safe they would not choke you makes me sick.
Floating flowers. As if you are the bowl in which water rises. Fucker.
I laughed “You’re silly!” and then ran to the bathroom to give myself a bloody nose. Surging in pulses
until a rope of saturated snot snakes from my sinuses. Thick cherry mud patted into
gifts and then ossified by sun.