You feel like a king with your hands in her hair,
twisting and ripping each strand to declare
your place in the castle of rags that she wears.
Her smile dims, screaming, "He loves me, I swear."
You tell them you're God when they ask why you steer
wheels toward her ribs with sick laughter (sincere).
Glued to the wall, like the stitches each year
wasted on love that they watch disappear...
And you're the magician with eyes of a clown,
shattering windows then crawling through town.
Mangle her feet so she can't walk around,
then smile politely from under your crown.