poem: we are writing, we are killing

I wrote an artist but did not give
her art, she was lonely
waiting by windows for bluer skies
but dying in her head,
re-castling to save me: the other girl,
the one writing her.

we were in hell together, the mafia
maniac pixie dream boy
blowing her kisses from the burning room,
the emo boy dying alone
and the girl giving into
greek fever sex dreams.

I wrote a girl alone
and gave her love
and gave her nothing
and cried while typing, that I could make and
remake her life so easily,
while mine was dead I could not re-write
I could not edit out the tragedy and
save the artist. we must have art,
we must have lambs to take
the fall.

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