and she did not believe
it. because the Unrequited is soft,
it is gazing out glazed-over windows
and waiting for fictions
in the mist and the raining grey.
but when the boy—is horribly
real, the Emotion
comes wild, exploding imploding
burning loose—the system
torn up, the inheritance
bolshevik-ed with three smiles.
she makes the Raw, the Heat
into easy things: depression,
suicide, teenager daydreams
of overdose
and underwear torn off
with a boy’s mouth.
her identity is going
in faster circles than the seconds: she is
queen/ bitch/ virgin/ lost/ hopeful
found/ desperate. she is
so fucking tired of waiting—she is
ready to wait for him until
the planets burn down—
until hell comes loose in her
mouth and she falls inside the inside,
curled up and crying
under her desk.
Stay Tuned, we will broadcast LIVE
from Chemical Purgatory. there is nothing
as entertaining
as watching Cupid spit out blood
and stab the same girl with the same
knife—her heart
coming up in her mouth,
the veins empty
vanities, the ribs and eyes
cracking
beautifully
under his pressure.
the last pavilion 