Wedding Rings (Poem Draft)

Wedding Rings

Make me want to cry, especially the black ones, whether Tungsten or tattooed or green or gold, etched with fancy letters I can’t read and would rather not anyway

the end of my serial monogamy seems so distant, but too close when I see those rings even though I haven’t even figured out whether I like the serial or the monogamy part best or if both are just replacement therapy for the kind of love I never got as a kid or something like my therapist said after I confessed that I loved her too and she stopped wearing those skirts every session though I never told her how I feel about thick lady thighs.

Then she got a ring.

I lied anyway because I didn’t love her as much as the idea of a her

which is what I’ve accused every girlfriend of who ever said they loved me anyway.  

Sometimes I consider just getting a ring and telling everyone I have a partner to make myself feel


It would be my only piece of jewelry and I look at my tanned ring finger in disgust hoping that one day it’ll do better.

My friend told me he likes the social capital that comes with inviting his wife to professional dinners, but I don’t really want to invite his wife anywhere.

My other friend says she likes having the booty on deck, just the roll over and nudge situation and her husband is a great guy but I wouldn’t fuck him.

I want to lose my wedding ring and be all stressed out about it and cut the tip of my

Finger off trying to grab it out of the garbage disposal. A blood sacrifice.

Maybe the dog will eat it because she’s jealous that she can’t wear one and

I’ll have to take her to the vet, then pointing at an X-ray machine the

Vet will be like “that is a lovely wedding ring,” the implication being that

I am lovely and my partner is lovely and we are happy and lovely together because it’s been less

than a year and we won’t get divorced for another six months

after which I’ll miss the shared fiscal responsibility–especially when I get the bill for that doggie X-ray–so I’ll find someone who’s broke but fucks

real good and just buy our new rings myself.

I walk home alone at night listening to “Drew Barrymore,” staring at my weak ass ring

finger instead of texting my most abusive ex who reminds me of a sauna and still makes my dick

get hard when I think about her hips. God I hate saunas. All that

suffocating heat for nothing, just sloughed off entropy to hate and burn and hate and burn you into

hating yourself for sitting there like an asshole. Google says you should remove your ring before

entering a sauna but I don’t have one; I wish I could take off my skin instead.

Rings are power and I want to be all the Green Lanterns and Alabaster Tenrings and kiss

my own ring before I take the pills at night. Anyone who’s seen Sonic The Hedgehog’s face when he loses those rings will immediately know how important they are.

If I were smarter or more attractive or more loving or had more money

I would have at least one ring already, but that’s dumb because I’ve met some

people with rings and nothing else.

still, my finger twitches at night in lust. It wakes me up and wants to be fed

love, artificial or otherwise and none of my fingers

wear condoms so I suck them dry, except for the ring finger because if it’s sticky enough it might

attract a mate.

One year at a music festival this cute girl from Jersey gave me Molly and a ring pop

that we sucked on all night together, dancing with her friends. I never saw

her again. Even though she gave me her number I wasn’t sure

she wanted me to have it, and I don’t know what I missed more–her or the ring. The

first married girl I ever fucked didn’t wear her ring, so how could I possibly have known? Until her

husband found me on Facebook and said he was her husband and

asked me what we did and I said any conflict was between them; I didn’t even know boul like that. I wanted to ask him if he could just sell me his ring though; I was broke but these were the layaway years and a ring was more important

than a couch or a bed or a television. We could have slept on the floor with our

love but she said how dare I talk to her husband who found me on Facebook

due to her sloppy cheating and told me to go fuck myself. She blocked

me then, but I found her on Facebook later. She’s happily re-married.