To The Poets Who Inspired Me But Then When I Met Them In Real Life They Treated My Like Shit


Have you ever held blood in your hands even though you aren’t a phlebotomist or other blood enthusiast?

Your words moved me to make more words and the office skylight exploded, red and blue butterflies poured out of your throat.

But when I finally met you and told you about the miracle you worked

you weren’t impressed,

like you’d heard it all before and butterflies are just cockroaches with wings—which is kind of redundant, not like the words that poured out of your soul and when I say kind of I mean really in a redundant way that something is really really painful.

Or stupid.

Like (insert something stupid here) and not like the words that poured out of your soul like Plath’s arterial spray (or ejaculate—just in case the metaphor got lost there is was, over there) and I am wasting your precious time talking to you about words when there is so much grading and preening in the academic mirror (masturbating) to be done.

I can’t quite believe your kind of soul has a mouth that has never lapped up blood from the altar of words.

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