i drink from your Styrofoam cup—

soaked in the white, red and solemn,

but misleading, the words added

to the mix        The porcelain horror

she doesn’t see, wounded with knives;

i wish to vacate my soul on the floor

of this matter, as waves of red ever



spread like the maps we mark:

Xs here and there, hearts striking,

so exquisitely with flared fingers

and red prints, pushed down like

bold buttons we’d press


i throw all the lies aside of me—

i’m 32              i’m empty and

i’m concerned about today, can

today be resurrected, someday

in poems, where the casual reader



“what shit

“what a fucking waste of time

“the words he used are just a bit,

“a glimmer even,

“of how he actually feels I bet”




“what genius

“what a fucking brilliant poem

“the words he used are blades,

“an edge even,

“of how I often feel when I’m alone”


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