realizing my audience
is mostly male,
a little scared to play
myself; the villain
but also literally can’t go
one more step forward pretending
I did not orchestrate an
entire clandestine destiny.

I don’t know, sarah,
you’ve been wrong before.
but once i start writing names,
they feel the difference in truth
and a lie; I feel them
sort of pulsate, getting ready
to confront this absurd idea
that you are using actual events
from their life as a barometer
for some sort of seething,
sidewinding violence
in which former victim
grows into a constant
predation and all
also me being unable to lie.

one by one,
precious line,
them being hung
like witches and
all labeled the same



“the black book”






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