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
senses.
also me being unable to lie.

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

“xxx”

or

“the black book”

 

 

 

 

 

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