and quartered,
hung from the neck
until all the impure people who go and talk about abuse and sexual exploitation are slaughtered.
Oops, sorry.
Wrong poem.
I meant to author this one:
Love's labours are beautiful,
and made of psychoemotional theft, murder, rape and arson.
Damn.
I think my creativity's not working right.
I think your projections actually might have worked for a change!
I think you may actually be losing sight
of the game.
All's fair in trauma and despair
in your telling of it, at least;
you can do whatever you fucking want and somehow still be at peace
with your cells and selves,
that must surely be crying out
for relief
from you. Not me.
I just get my interests in archeoastronomy
attacked, because some people don't know how to spell
academic.
I just get treated like I don't know how to read people.
Like I don't know how to take
yes for an answer.
Can I tell you a little secret?
Just a small one, I swear:
it's all not actually fake.
My body is actually devoid of evil.
And now, my language and culture and community too.
Soon, even my island, and world, and universe,
the more you continue to project and stare.
Beauty, after all, is bought by judgement of the eye,
and not by crying foul, or screaming
beware.
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