poem: the artists

lying across icecream sheets and smoking

cigarettes, with the glowing nubs held ladylike

between fingers like it’s

the 1920’s. he was so perfectly confident among

the freaks and they rejected

her. anything utopian and egalitarian is a

lie. turning on her back with

her hair curling onto the mattress and nicotine

hissed up under her lips. if Gerald Way made it through

highschool, i can too: that was the old

manifesto. now it is golden sunlight on a dying girl

that keeps her waking up. one more hell, one more

poem. i guess

it’s worth it?

(shh we’re all drugged and bluffing)

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