Pretty in her Plague

Pretty in her plague; she makes
her statements in prologue -

a rolling wave of sugary mold;
she takes my neck, stiff, holds.

Or the wholes in her face; defacing
my optimism - a world, like an
oyster, or the cunt of her cruelty,
moister in the moment of clarity

(I smile when I hear
that he fucked you, and left you
and now you find yourself oh, so, sad.)

Pretty in her plague, army postpartum;
witless verbatim,

and now what?

I listen to you take words and rape them
clumsily like a virgin would, a thousand
insults that dance across my ear lobes; down
my chandelier ear rings, across the scar on my neck;
underneath my breasts that flaunt your
unflattering flatness.

And now what? Pretty in her plagiarism;
in her romanticism. In her scowl at my
reaction. Elevated from her contraction
of innocence.

The plague, she says is pretty; like fireworks,
like infants and infidels, like smirks.

Pretty in her post haste wasting of this poem.

Pretty in my prominent position of gaining the
upper hand in this always happily argument spent
pacing. I want to watch you sweat out your
fears until it puddles in riddles.

(In the end, I send these words to you,
for who else would fear them so, although
you deserve nothing, I have something
to hold over you.)

Pretty in her punishment; abstinent,
pinch, and flake the raw odor of her eye
lids - empty her fibs across her face
like tears, tracing the tartaric glom, an
under layer of assayers.

Pretty? No, nothing more then a jar of piss
to pour her plagues through.