mediocre poetry.

commissions.

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But if you were to promise me,
Just how much promise would you keep?
You cut off pieces when you think no one is looking,
Dropping them in the bucket by your feet,
Leaving me with only
A portion.
Of every pinky you lock, you keep a commission.
You tear off bits discreetly,
And spend them like currency--
Coins to pay for the slot-machine lies
Whispered in other girls' ears at midnight.
We both know what you do.
Give me your bucket, pour it over my head,
Rub in its contents like broken glass, disguised as confetti.
And I will laugh, just as I am supposed to:
This, the only joke of yours I find funny.