i had to
read myself
last night
in order to
proof the
newest collection
it felt
as if i was
watching
footage of
an accident
in slow motion
as the car
smashed itself
into a wall
the driver
pulled himself
free of the
shattered glass
twisted steel
got into
a fresh vehicle
rinse and repeat
until all
that remained
was the wall
and a series
of stains
in the shape of
cartoon hearts
in crimson dust

it seems to be
obvious why
the books
never sell
masochism is
a niche interest
and there is
only so much
one is willing
to put themselves
through in the
idiotic pursuit
of a dead art
but here we are
another sheaf
of honest agonies
made pretty
by a cover
and clever edits
letting the words
never quite clot
or bleed through
the pages
in the magic of
distilling pain
to pawn it all
off as beauty