Rod Serling haunts me;

The way my father intended.

You leave copies of bell hooks out when we fight;

While your boyfriend calls me a pussy.

In another life you were better;

In another life we were better.

I owe the people $128.

You owe some broken girl-child from the mountains everything.

You of all people were supposed to understand me.

You gave me every book about myself that you have never read

I watch the tendrils of apathy and capital coil;

You could not hold the pain of a widow if she payed you