The Anti-Literary Magazine
Even the scarred can dream on New Year's Eve
once mere debris - / now sweep the stars,
Questions after you said I died a million times in you
Who sings honeyed dirges for the dead while their warm hands make love with someone else’s warm hands?
Sorrow a monotonous tune, like the weeping of this lonesome cunt. I cry because I am two hours behind his time zone always, and maybe that means I am also two hours behind grieving us always.