Did I really look palatable enough for you to chew
an off-color choker into my neck?
Just because I said we didn't have to talk.
Just because I said I'd ordered some jelly shoes
you might want to see. You only spent a minute checking out
my feet. Did I really pose like a sweet,
superficial femme fatale when I was craving a deeper fate;
not just another ice cream sundae date,
another dull toothache. I apply a layer of Magic Shell
to cover the ice cream. You use a plastic utensil
to smooth away fine lines in waxy topping.
We request the extra-glossy maraschino cherries
until the sickly sweet consumption stains my mouth.
Sticky red lips like an accessory. Ruby necklace jammed
in my throat and I'm gagging
on the sharp, unpolished gems. I know what you think
I'm doing with my tongue, but you'll be surprised
when I spit out stickpins instead of stems.
I have a jewelry box of contents to garnish
your dessert -- rusty chains, broken clasps, so many rings
that no longer fit my fingers.