these fucking rooms they eat me alive
these fucking windows
these light bulbs that burn themselves out these
poets puking up broken glass making sounds
like candles guttering like holes being dug
by the starving and the raped and when
i paint this picture the only color i can find is black
and the only color i can find is cerulean blue
and these fucking empty spaces they eat me alive
these fucking open mouths that can never be
filled and so what does it make me if
i let them starve?
why does it matter if i laugh?
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