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Bianca Stone


from The Black House Poems



Now that I’m in charge of things I resent not being able to quit without serious generational catastrophic backlash. I cannot unsee the world. So I come to you alive via satellite from the Black House with a long black sentence stitched into my wrist—I come to you as killer of grey, and the wielder of black & white: I split down the middle, swing wildly, I do as my ancestors did: idealize and devalue the average voter—I am as someone bitten during a yellow moon going after the nightingale, a gold chain’s coin hits my chest when I bang on the desk and say to my therapist: I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. And when he says BULLSHIT, we sit there. I watch the trees. And he watches me watch the trees.

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