The Cure.

She’s quaint but perverted as she sits on top of unseen knees,

Folded inside a wired chair

With a flower in her hair for protection -

Bitter and stiff from the wait for a cure.

She’s stretched and thin from the rainbow corset I told her not to wear;

Though while her eyes are laced, I can have my way.

As I rip the pearl clad and whale bone lined treasure off her selfish form,

I’ll dress myself inside of her infection,

And see if they treat me the same.