I HATE YOUR POETRY.
I hate your poetry. It raises no waters.
Or the little hairs on my spine.
You mention mountains but
you’re not defining anything new,
I still see them blue from the distance
and still think they’re cold and tough to climb.
You think stars make your love poem.
You think some wrist slitting colors
you a dark one. Wrong. That’s overdone.
Tell me how sometimes at night
you want to get up and kill someone
on the street just out of curiosity,
just to see how you’ll get caught.
Tell me how last night you saw the moon
on the shelf next to your bed
bathing in your bottle of perfume.
Tell me these instead.
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