poem: psychology of a paris review or new yorker tote bag

she looks like every other bitch; she is reading
The Secret History, and I wrote in the back of Normal
— if you read too much at one time, your
chest hurts; and I
also filled out the Geriatric
depression Scale in the back pages, like that asshole Connor
did, in shuffling masturbatory pencil.
Love tore
me up, love did not (fuck you Homer)
conquer: he looks an anime wet dream, he is leaning
shoulders-into-stars into the window,
the Nike sweatshirt caught —
like a dying bird, or something more genial —
into his neck. she would fuck
murderers, henry winters, or sentient
tiktok trends; I told people I was depressed and instead
went on hikes and bled,
like any other woman.

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