Escape
Thirty-six summers have bronzed her throat
yet no ring has dared to settle there.
Her virginity long fled like a guest
who overstayed one reckless April night
and never returned to apologize.
She walks rooms as though they owe her tribute,
chin lifted like a queen who has already
beheaded the crown for insufficient shine.
Her tongue spits verdicts before questions finish,
each syllable a small guillotine
polished to mirror-flash arrogance.
Beneath the haughty arch of her brows
lives a quieter, more frantic animal:
a bride-not-yet who claws at calendars,
counts remaining eggs like miser's coins,
listens for wedding bells in every passing siren.
Desperation perfumes her
cloying, unmistakable,
the scent of overripe jasmine
that knows frost is coming.
She scorns the men who approach
(as though they are defective merchandise
sent by an incompetent god),
yet at 3 a.m. she scrolls through faces
with the frantic precision of a bomb technician
defusing her own remaining years.
Oh, she is wildfire dressed for church
flame wrapped in silk,
smoke disguised as perfume,
a cathedral of pride whose spire
secretly prays for someone brave enough
to burn it all down and carry her out
still spitting sparks.
Arrogant as a storm that refuses to rain,
yet terrified of remaining forever dry.
Thirty-six, unclaimed, unbroken,
and breaking
a bride in waiting who would rather
rule an empty throne
than kneel before a love
she has not first conquered.
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