A girl cries in her wedding gown
As love is shoved down her throat.
The nausea she felt was not enough
To counteract the loaded chamber-
Pointed through her mouth.

Her ******* filled snot.
Her coffee shot lips.
The tears that taste like whisky and gin-
Culminations of a cocktail that spins;
The bottle of sobriety and arousal.
Of the boy with the gun in his hands.

Whether it’s meant to be or the opposite
Love is like wasted composite.
Where we recycle past grievances
And churn them into three verses.
Three verses of clichés;
Curses by men in hearses.