Do not envy poets.
We are producers and consumers of despair,
recycling over and over our same hurts:
[your scars are an earthquake.]
[he smoked cigarettes too much—
it's hard to romanticize cancer
but i can find a way...]
You can rip us open but all you'll find
are half-baked metaphors and tallow candles
burning down to stumps on our ribs.
[even our own deaths are not sacred;]
[she starved herself—no money left—
and tried to suck the marrow
from the shadows gathering under her eyes.]
We are sloppy messes of jumbled images,
like puzzles to solve.
Not people, but pieces;
[one is lost, floating out to sea.]
[i write to fill the void.
do not envy poets.]