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.
the last pavilion 