he kept saying I was a
   poet and that I was the
 but my talent was only ever in
   and the skills I had to
   tell it, well
   that and the
   sickness inside that told me
    to see.
I've thrown eight hundred
   tantrums all up and last week I
   tried to gut the television from the
      outside in;
  I couldn't stand
   the news and the
   journalists and the advertisements and
   the shame of it all.
 since, I've started to believe that
   maybe there are
   reptiles controlling us
and he's messaging me as I'm
   away, far away, telling me that I'm
   capable and strong and really,
     I'm not.
   and I want to write it all down and say
   all the words I couldn't say, the real
   the real poet
    but I've become a cathedral of perplexing
   masks and matches and I'm not sure it's ever going
   to stop burning,
   not yet,
    and he keeps looking at me and cooing my
   words and climbing my comfort and I want to
but when I first started writing
   - when I was good, if you can call it
   that - I didn't write about decomposing bodies or the
   consumption of TV or the way that nothing seems to
   anymore, so what does that say of 
    you and me?
 he kept saying I was a
   poet and that I was worth
   something  but I am not
   myself enough
   anymore to
    see it,
   or much less harness it,
    so what kind of poet can I
    really be?

Published by Charlotte Griffiths