Khalypso
no & i have only just considered stopping.
it doesn’t hurt enough. the pain has only just settled
into the grooves—maybe there’s spendable gold
where these sobs end. mars is in retrograde so fake
like you care about understanding me so we can all go
home a little earlier. i’m tired of war metaphors for bodies
that have learned their borders, but i am also tired of negotiating
with a language that sits on my tongue like arsenic pulp. essentially,
i am unlearning the act of being owned; i have so far done this bloodlessly,
therefore, i am failing. my first mistake was having heroes, the second was choosing
the living. when you’re a psychic, no one’s ever telling you the truth. that’s why tarot
readers are always single. as a poet, i am obligated to love. as a nigger, i’m supposed to
know better than that. did you know the hottentot venus spoke perfect french?
Khalypso used to be a friendly poet; nowadays they’re just looking for the loudest indica strain. They do tarot readings, doula work, & stand-up tragedy for money. Catch them & their foolishness on Twitter @KhalypsoDaHome.
