You are like sweet pickles.
I prefer dill,
Always have and always will
And your taste will never be enough.
But I choose you
Because you are the
Only thing on the table
That looks familiar.
Your skin is just as
Pleasing as a dill pickle,
But this little similarity will only
Sour my smile,
And my disappointment in your taste
Will become quite apparent
As it echoes through the tunnels and channels of my
Lips and eyes.
But I’ve passed up cheeses
And wines for you
(The cheeses are unfamiliar,
Smelly, and fattening; the
Wines turn me red
And stupid).
Yes, I have chosen you.
I hope your eyes dilate at that
And the growing and enveloping blackness
Takes over your vision and your will,
Rendering me invisible
But twice as lovely and
Four times as dangerous.
With you blinded now, sweet pickles,
Let me tie you up in my fingers
And kill you.