God, I miss being anorexic. Wouldn’t it be great to fluctuate in the space
between death and death’s magistrate once again? No turning back
on sin. How to negotiate the thin layer and the paper mache
sculpture I made of the supermax prison do you like it do you like it
do you want it yeah you want it. White noise. Pink noise. Piggy Bank. Prism
experiment: to stuff the black-out metabolism with this nagging thought
            “Should have never fucked the director
            of the creative writing department.” What a
            mistake. Look how mediocre he is, was, became. Bet you five other
            women feel the same. Go ahead, take a screen shot
            of this or that. Some kind of scree-like panic rockslides
                        down the surveillance state—
                        information funneled into the weirdest ear eye throat cauldron.
                        Some kind of longing beyond the drone planet orifice oracle artifice.
                        Give me a poetry prize, and we’ll call it even.
                        God, I miss being anorexic. Wouldn’t it be great?