Sunday, October 16, 2016

Everyone's a Critic

Because you told me
"Sit in the corner
and cry
and write bad poetry,"
I'm on the dirt floor,
splintered wood lining the walls,
smell of cut cedar and sweat,
because, you see,
there is no AC where I come from,
and where I'm going,
I'm not really sure.
I'd meander
from room to room,
but there is only one,
and it's filled
with blunt corners.
Topless, I lean
against the furthest wall,
feel shreds
of dead trees
puncture sensitive skin,
and I write.
And it's not bad.
So fuck you.

Copyright 2016
Katherine Gotthardt

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