I refuse pretending

romanticism

is chocolate truffles,

accompanying a flower bouquet.

I’d much rather prefer—

pampering you with a rodent,

victimized by road rage,

six days dead—

birthing blowflies

out of maggots.

I’d offer a bottle of Tequila,

undesirably aged.

Eat the soggy worm,

swipe its liquified innards

across my tongue,

while kissing passionately

psychotic in expression

of honorable adoration.

Most men act out

sappy sentimental charades,

in fear of not succeeding

despair in lonesomeness.

In this unsympathetic world,

scarlet madness

defines devotion.

Therefore, I’ve chosen

not to hide behind the deceitful

mask of assumed affection

most men cleverly sneak

into drinks on dinner dates.

Let us etch this night

together—

forever lustful in our minds

by committing our dark hearts

desire—

low-budget pornicide.

Scream and I’ll yank

strands of crimson hair

clear from hidden lacerations

streaming blood out of fresh

life-threatening fractures

scattered across your head.

 By William Andre Sanders