poem for all of the editors who've written to tell me how much they hate poems about writing poetry

and i don't believe in god
and i have no use for poets


have no use for wars
or for any of the ways that
words fail us


think about silence


think about the idea of
rape camps


about the reality
the way the human mind
turns concepts
into butchered bodies


and even on days where
i breathe nothing but
pale blue sunlight
i refuse to let go
of my hatreds


i refuse to act on them


which of these
would you define as
cowardice?