What if the whispers
pummeling their way
through the walls
of this here wedding cake
were secretly detesting
the undressing phase
we’re both stuck in?
Imagine the smorgasbord of scandal
overturned on top of us,
and all I wanted was to tune up,
turn up in a blaze,
and make sweet glove
to your restless hands
while they enfold me.
Now all that’s left
is a pandemic of frailty
spreading between our bones
and mutual disposition.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 