Your hands meet mine yet I feel no such warmth beneath,
Like as in your heart - your pulse is beating but it bears no love.
It does not sing a song that wins over the robins that wake us in the morn',
And it does not seem to make me flit nervously as a child would.
(Those etiquette lessons did not do me much justice – I still fidget.)

I may be beautiful today - rose-stained cheeks and chandelier eyes,
But you must understand that this white dress, drowning in lace and beading,
Is similar to your own outfit as well, dashing young gentleman - we are trapped.
Just a marriage of convenience, isn't it? Like what your mother said to you.
(As what mine has said to me. It seems as if we have found something in common.)

It is like the sacerdotal man, dressed in his ornate robes, does not care much for us;
As if his readings of the words of the Lord rectifies our loveless union.
And as his voice trails off and he orders you to touch upon my lips with a kiss,
I can’t help but tighten my mouth and pretend that you’re my prince charming.
(How I wish to shove our vows down his throat, to make him take this all back.)

The audience stands tall and proud and claps with a feigned enthusiasm,
Galvanizing the church with fraudulent hope and happiness.
I am the docile blushing bride, and as you lead us out of the threshold,
I cannot help but wonder how two people could have destroyed such a beautiful thing.
(We are murderers of matrimony, aren’t we, dear? Not much better than a petty criminal.)