Spoiler Alert

You invite me to your wedding because
you found that picture of me in the yellow sundress
and remember the way my hands fit around

the steering wheel and all of the cheap motel rooms
and the nights we sat on the roof chain smoking
and throwing our beer cans into the street.

And you didn't tell her because, well,
she'd be furious, of course. So when I show up
wearing some painted on velvet dress

and skyscraper stilettos strapped to my ankles,
her spray tan starts to steam and she squeals
like lobster because this was supposed to be her day,

everything was going to be perfect,
from the pinstriped vanilla cake to the gaudy alter
all strung up with pearls and ribbons and tired lace.

And I'm the most cliché kind of bitch, to try
to take this away from her after everything
I've already tried to take but I'm still convinced

if you weren't going to be happy with me,
you weren't going to be happy with anyone.
So I drink buckets of champagne and clap

when I'm supposed to and smile like dessert
and flirt with the bartender, and her brother,
and your brother, and dance and when no one's

looking sneak away from the crowd
and take the matchbook from my purse
and strike each quick, let the flames tongue

the flimsy canvas and watch the slow curve
of fire wrap its mouth around this stupid circus
tent, the click clack of swiveling heels and the shriek

of volcano, the black and white evening wear
stampede that erupts, tramples her precious hand-
painted centerpieces, the hills of wrecked

bouquets and crystal dinner plates
but after all, she did warn you
I would ruin everything.