2/2/2017

to vivisect the reader,
to bleed all over my paper
the one great poem i wish to write one day.

dead plath would be happy
my life with you a fat diseased rat.
for once, i think about what i write

taking slow breaths and thinking about meanings
there is something i am trying to say and i do not
know how to

clawing inside of me
an incubus's baby, what is it?
only dead saints know

but here's the thing,
and it is:
i did this to myself

i don't know what an apostrophe is
but i would if i saw it.
my past is full of ulcers and

the cold February cuts into me
it is my butcher
i have been that girl