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