For Your Entertainment
A Self Serving Steaming Pile Of Me

Put your wedding ring in me.
Please.
I like the feel of diamonds up there. Cutting into me.
I sparkle. You make me sparkle.

Will you take me to the hospital if you burst me? If you split me? If you rupture me?
Will you order an ambulance for me?
Will you ride with me in the ambulance?
Will you make sure they have the siren wailing?
Will you flirt with the hospital orderlies, who are always hot and sexy?
That’s my ideal man: a hospital orderly.
Will you hold my hand while they stitch me up like a dress?

I won’t mind if you cut off your tongue and place it in me. I won’t get angry. Will it feel rough or slippery?

I wish I had ovaries so that I could have your babbling babies.

But I wish everything had burned down until it was nothing but ash so soft and black that I could trace my finger through it.
Write love letters to you in it, you my little burned-down house.
You my red lacquered thing.
Love is a singeing, many-scarred thing.

Think of me as the bright snare that sits in a forest waiting for unsuspecting creatures.
I’m waiting for you pink and wet and dripping like the world after it’s been raining.
God started the flood so that the world would forget the meaning of the word dry.
I’m wet thinking of the idea of you.
My hole’s twitching like an eye, like we’ve all got something to be nervous about.

God started a flood, so why can’t I?