“A Letter to Your Own Fucking Self”

You’re fucking done. / You’re fucking done trying poetry, / You’re fucking done trying art, / You’re done trying to make things work / though you tried because you felt you were in love, / You thought you were in love? / You thought you were in love / but it turns out love has an expiration date / it turns out that you and art are a plastic bottle of generic brand milk / ’cause artists are poor, you know / a plastic thing of milk begun to sour / begun to curdle / begun to separate, / You’re separate / and you thought you were in love, / You idiot, / You idiot, / You idiot, / You were reading poor journalism of “10 Things to Do” articles about relationships / when relationships are just time bombs / and that is if love even has existence at all / because art made a mess of you and your pursuit / so why are you invested / why are you in it / when you can’t win it, / You can be done. / You’re fucking done.