Lack of communication is the shackle
that binds me to you.
It's the reason my tongue ties in knots
whenever I think of telling you
that this can't go on anymore.

"Swallow your pride." I was told,
while I was handed a glass of water.
A long finger with dirt under the nail
made it's way to my lips
attempting to un purse them with a pill.
My tongue may be tied
but my jaw works just fine
and the consequence for biting the hand that feeds
is a full force meeting of the back of that hand.

You want to strike me now?
Are you going to march me up
to that hollow altar,
my loins dragging behind my dress,
and stick your fist down my throat,
tweak my voice box into saying "I do..."
and then rip it out of me?
And what about our time apart?

It's too much like a Fleetwood Mac song.
So I rub my eyes, they open
and here I am still in the church.
The face behind the veil
is about to be unveiled.
I close my eyes and hold my breath.
Oh but let me fester in your rapture
and fuck the ghost of your spirit in my dreams.

I rub my eyes, they open again,
and we're on opposite sides of the ring,
the confines of a courtroom.
I can only imagine why you're here.
Did your dick dry
as silence swept across that haunted house
with your worthless wife?
And what has become of the child
I'd surely save if given the chance?
Maybe that's what started this mess.
Or maybe that was just a cop out
for someone who was too afraid to walk away
but not too afraid to have their cake and eat it too...

I blink my way back to the altar
then flash forward to a dainty, piss poor excuse for a reception,
where I'm standing, clanging my knife to my glass...

"Let us raise our drinks!
Here's to being sacrifices..."

06/14/2010

Author's Note: mad props to my partner in crime, Sean Rooney.

*this isn't about me. (who am i kidding?)

Posted on 06/14/2010
Copyright © 2024 Nanette Bellman