Well, this is a dark one.
She twerked her way
into his fibrous heart, or so she
thought—the truth was that
he had no room in his heart
for anything other than hatred
which was the bruised color
of the sky when his mother died
and his father rented his brain out
for $50/month and a blow-job.
Time passed like melting fingers,
and she asked her reflection
every night, “Do I still have a chance?”
The mirror didn’t mind lying,
so it said, “Every chance in the world.”
Like a fish, she was hooked and she swam
daily through false oceans and dreamed
of ancient ship wrecks of which he was
the captain, doomed to endless watery graves.