he puts his name upon my poetry
like he has some kind of right.
maybe the socnet dearlings tolerate this,
but how dare you own what is mine?
my art doesn't swell my popularity on Instagram;
it puts food on my table.
tampons are still taxed.
(Instagram sets seething pits of alligator lizards in my diaphragm,
I avoid it like anthrax in a business letter.
I already fail at How To Poet.)
I am not a too-tragic beautiful wilting flower.
I am a human girl;
I have considered putting my head in a fan-forced oven and simply hoping.
I do not have the inclination to love the bleeding when it echoes through my body.
I cannot eat fashionable sadness and pale feminism.