poem: even the angels are damned

it is four o’clock: we are fucking
in my head.
it is eleven-thirty: you have left
the room, the lights
are off. you did not talk to me,
you smiled with an
odd, dripping darkness;
I am ripped down my inner thigh
the pooling coming faster,
I put my hand
inside myself and I become
the monster, the nazi,
my father fucking,
myself fucking myself.

there is nothing
beautiful
about desperation;
there is nothing beautiful
about the damned
killing themselves. we are
cutting lines by the window,
cutting skin—so unconventional—
All Hail the Romantics,

it is easy,
they are dead.

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