FORGE FORWARD, SHE SAID,
THERE WILL BE TOMORROW.

WHEN YOU RIP OUT YOUR TONGUE
AND THE GORE OF HUMILIATION
CASUALLY FEASTS ON YOUR
IRON-WROUGHT BLOOD

WHEN YOU COUGH OUT
YOUR STOMACH AND THROW UP
YOUR LUNGS YOU WILL TASTE
ABSOLUTE, SOUL-CRUSHING FAILURE.

NOTHING WILL EVER
PREPARE YOU
FOR THE UTTER AGONY
OF FORGOTTEN POETRY.

———

a poetry book exploring my steep decline in my love for this art form.