confessional whore

N.B. for writing explicitly obvious poetry which i never seem to regret publicising

on average i’m pregnant almost every day.
you say why
and what the fuck does that mean
and i’m too tired to explain to you
that when the moon straps me to his ass
he chitters and says “write another bitch-poem, lymh”
and off i go, to my notes page on my iPod.

i go into labour and i abandon my poetry the second
the last syllable stains the surface of the perfect sun
and when you read what i say
they’re immediately adopted by your head
there is no orphanage for poisonous thoughts like these
we have a genre for me
it is teenage angst maybe
or it is just sick of seeing the same tattoos, dip-dyes
and lame excuses for censoring every negative opinion in the world

i want y’all to judge me because i think its cute
an irony i love is that i’m not interested in what any of you strangers really have to say
except that i would like you to blacken my fingers to ash
with compliments
and adoration
i would like you to fuck me hard then call me a slut

so i can go be a failure and give birth to another shameless poem
about other failures like you coming and going from my life
as your dick dries and you wipe it from the edges around my legs
we said confess your secrets
so i go to bed
and i say “eat me out”

i don’t charge people for doing this
and i love it when you break my heart
because then i get to wear my experiences like pearls around my neck
and say i’m a lovely gentlewoman
the banker’s wife
when really i’m just a “confessional whore”

who wants to beat you down with rose after rose
to nip you in the bud to lick the moon’s balls
to kick the sun’s womb ten times over
and to leave you absolutely dead, i hate young people today
i am just a silly little girl with plenty of tears to shed
i never bring it up as my family cos language isn’t my child

 

its just offspring of a pimp who fucked me over, maybe.

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