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)
the last pavilion 