poem: the other black parade

the pretty people are still alive: the girls in white

blouses, the boys being kissed

from train-windows.

 

I was alive in aftershock:

I had sex with ghosts and wrote

love letters to the gods,

to the dust motes in my hair.

I was waiting for a boy with too pale skin

and black eyes

to pull me apart, to uncord the length of his heat

into my small, shaking hands; I was waiting

for the aesthetic to unspool into my bed,

the wet parts all sudden and alive.

 

the dead soldiers, their lovers:

they are laughing at me. I am

romanticizing, I am crouched

naked under damp sheets,

waiting and waiting alone.

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