Your community is dead.
That's it. That's the poem.
There's nothing more to be said.
And if you resurrect it from the dead—
if that's it, if that's your solution—
we will make you wish you never had.
We will make you think of all the ways you might be dead.
The possibilities, the overwrought imagination—
the gun pointed, dead straight ahead,
at the world's end. I know it is said
that men can find other men attractive,
but this will not be true for you. When you look in the mirror, you will be forced to depend
on compliments, where only others do not fear to tread.
You will never know much we want you.
How much is done to make you intend
to die without ever knowing—
the way you make dreams and fantasies quietly come true?
That's something we want to read, and watch, and hear, and fear
over and over and over and over again.
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