I can't pay my rent today.
I can't write poetry, either,
because I took a pill,
that I spent my rent money on,
and I can't write on this pill.
But this pill promised me
it would make me beautiful.

Imagine making a cocktail
with crushed glass
instead of ice.
It would **** you,
but it'd be so beautiful.
Blood would drip from your lips
like lipstick, deadly and red,
but it'd be so beautiful.

Imagine paying your rent with poetry.
You'd be back on the streets,
and strangers probably would think
that maybe, pretty white girl,
you're a self-inflicted martyr,
a heroine against the culture
or maybe just that
you just do ******,

but it'd be so beautiful.