Flattered that you think I warrant ugliness. Gutters

drain west, mud made a mess of us. It's time to leave

this place. I'd saw through your wrist to find a

better trap that fits. I'd saw through your traps to

find a better you, a part of you that lasts. I saw

through your trap and into my own wrists. Saw we were

through, red ribbons spill to blue: a sight to sore

your eyes. I got this dress. I'm hiking it around

this waste of laughter. Slow dance alone with no one

to the sound of four hands clapping. Congratulations

to you both, I hope somewhere you're happy. If

there's a moral to this story then I wish you'd show

me. Hair in the blood, fly in the disappointment.

Rubber, I'm glue. I'll write the book on you. It's

sticking to my face. You need a little less than what

you take for granted. This is the sip that's drinking

back from you, blacking out your eyes. You need a

little more suppression of your appetites. This is

your honeymoon, in separate rooms, it's neither sweet

nor bright. I made a word to give this state a name,

this game a guess. I call it "sluttering". It means

as little as your little test. You are your worst

revenge. Your very means, they have no ends. This is

a story you won't tell the kids we'll never have. If

you hear this song a hundred times it still won't be

enough