I gave my husband bruises to
plaster me with.
Bare boned, I have pleaded with
double edged devils
to spare me from
fingers engulfed in flame.
But, the fire comes. Twisting
my insides out, wringing
leftover drops
of love
out,
to drip down drains,
to suffocate.
Permeation takes place. Fresh
becomes stale,
gross.
Like wedding cake.
Like a bride’s bouquet.
Like stiff shoulders daring a
husband to come close.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 