Jealousy Marries Insecurity, and I Catch The Bouquet

By Nix Carlson

And of course it’s covered in thorns, drenched in Bacardi

I’m not very lucky, but you already knew that.

I’ve never caught the bouquet before and, 

Lord knows, I’ll probably never have the chance to throw one.

If I do, I hope my careless aim sends it clear across state lines 

To your velvet couch where the love of your night sleeps 

While you sit on the balcony with a cigarette. 

Naturally, you have left me shattered and, 

Without fail, I lose my fucking shit over you. 

My hands are bleeding all over your leather seats, 

Spilling over onto the mourning dress you didn’t bother to notice, 

Staining an otherwise perfect 

Goodbye.

Forgive me,

I resent that I am nothing but a waste of your time, your patience.

(as long as it shines with the veneer of vulnerability, who really gives a fuck who you pretend to love?)

It just hurts to sit here with your palm pressed to my thigh while you whisper liquored lies into her ears.

I promise, I am trying to be kind and soft and something you could almost maybe love.

I struggle to let you go quietly while my hands are still stinging from your thorns.

I know, I am harsh and cruel and an embarrassing, messy drunk.

Forgive me, I’m sorry.

I consent to your retaliation – 

Lace your fingers around my throat, tighter,

So it is impossible for further atrocities to pass through my lips.

Cut out my tongue so that the only language left for me to speak

Is the one you refuse to understand

(Then pull out the garter you stole off the bride and 

Bind my hands behind my back

So I lose even that). 

After all, the preacher already asked me to speak any objections. 

Now I must hold these flowers and my peace.

By Nix Carlson