Allow me
to stalk the penitence of your wayward
soul gyrating on a bed of blood and petals
leading you to the death of all your sins
and to the beginning of new ones
Allow me
as you fumble through your vows
the delight of mockery at the tear that dives
flat faced on the soil that bore you
incapable of weeping
Allow me
to untangle the stalks of santan that wraps itself
austerely ‘round your finger, so I can raise
my middle finger on you in a form
of a champagne glass for a toast
Allow me
the burning of my feverish bitterness
as I sat in the back pew, uninvited
to this eager celebration of deceit
beginning at full tilt with “I do”
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