poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)

i put hope on the ceiling fan and
turned it on and watched
it fling off
and splatter on the walls; my mother
will be pissed, but I want
her to know that the blue and the black
now coating her plaster
is how I feel, most of the time.

for context, mother, let
me say that hope is a soggy bitch sitting
with her weird friends
cutting up my life like yarn.
hey, nameless boy
i know you are far and away—
you are living la vida gothic, kissing
your painted-up girlfriend against
mirrors, letting her fingers
dig into the glass
and the record bins; I didn’t know
people could really look
like a Blink-182 song—
I guess I’m glad
to be proved wrong
on something;

I guess I’m okay now
and definitely not
(hey, I hope your girlfriend
gets coronavirus
and dies)

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