I begin to weigh the scales:
what’s the probability
that illusion grows legs
or that imagination is laden
with foresight?
you see if I don’t begin to
think this way, I will
begin to cross the bridge
and when my foot hits the
concrete, I want to
leap, arms spread.
it’s not about anyone coming
back. it’s about me
accepting love is a double edged
sword and I’m a fucking
whore. isn’t that what
you told your friends?
that you can’t date
a whore like that.

and to end the poem
graciously, i want you to 

feel the pins sticking out
of your eyes before you
taste the thumbtacks.
it’s not voodoo,
dear, it’s the way I write.
they say I’m
bitter. they say some
whores are so bitter
but well at rhymes.


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