I want no part of this process, this grisly try.
God! I loathe myself when my knees get grimy
begging for those endless crumbs.
Who the fuck do you think you are
smirking so safe so cool so removed
waiting for my next sad spill?
Like I’m Miss July, recalled.
Like I’m the small press suicide that would not take.
Ghost vagina haunted with lines never written.
Nobody’s muse, nobody’s queen, nobody’s toy
so shiny and assembled in box crackling bad news.
Expired nickel Valentine. Poisoned Halloween treat.
There is nothing here to see, nothing you can touch
and carry away.
I taste like purple onions sauteed
in garlic powder.

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