cross my name off your list. how
real do you think a mask of my face might make you, might
elevate your sad sack of self?
alarming as it
may sound to you—
oh, this is good, this is good. i’m too
fucking good.
that which my name would
heighten was but an
ember lost in the river of lava that
clogs at the coast,
rhombuses ablaze as far as the eye can see.
oh, you are, indeed, full of it. you of cowardly false
pride that implodes (explodes inwardly). may your heart well learn from it.
seven sins (i)
