why do all the
classic women poets
write so goddamn
nice.
Pretty.

I am not ashamed
of these bruises
or awkward words

And there is no man
behind this,
no father, love, friend,
or even sister

I am crafted from earth,
and tired

Mist settling over lakes,
stunning landscapes
of vibrant greens,
greys
sullen words to paint
the mood

It all is, I am,
so self pitying
all so searching,
answering,
wounded
defiance

but never proud
of our pain,
unabashed in our
unsympathic
asshole moves
and
of our crude lines
and reckoning

Who will not be afraid of the shit we pull?
Our stupidity

I have done awful things.

And I want my
words to reek of
dawn,
of god and absence

I want you to love
my words,
if not me.

And I am ashamed.